


Kiss

by SecretAgentCodenameBob



Series: What Am I? [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon compliant...ish, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, M/M, My love letter to Nygmobblepot, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Seasons 2 -5 and beyond, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretAgentCodenameBob/pseuds/SecretAgentCodenameBob
Summary: In other words, the five times Oswald wanted to kiss Ed, and the one time he did. Finally.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: What Am I? [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/488417
Comments: 156
Kudos: 320





	1. Lillies

_Of no use to one_  
_Yet absolute bliss to two._  
_The small boy gets it for nothing._  
_The young man has to lie for it._  
_The old man has to buy it._  
_The baby’s right,_  
_The lover’s privilege,_  
_The hypocrite’s mask._

_What am I?_

???

The first time Oswald Cobblepot finds himself wanting to kiss Edward Nygma it means very little. 

He has known this strange, mayfly man for such a short time in the grand scheme of things. And yet, with barely a few days of care and a rattle of whispered words aimed with the precision of a sniper rifle, he has changed the course of Oswald's life. 

Ed had wrenched him firmly from the brink of death and then unapologetically thrust him back into the land of the living. 

_For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness._

Words weighted with the same power as an umbrella in Fish Mooney’s hands or a knife in Tabitha Galavan’s, yet infinitely more delicate.

Oswald rests his head against the cool bars of the precinct cell, closing his eyes. Funny, how quickly things can change in Gotham. 

"Is there anything I can do to help?" 

Somehow, even now, exhausted and filthy and finished, Ed manages to make him smile. Each murmured consonant is low and clipped yet the degree of intensity beneath the words is startling.

_You're standing too close._

Oswald only has to tilt his head to see the place he and Ed had first met, barely a few feet away. So much has changed since those fledgling moments. He could almost question whether that naïve GCPD surgeon and the murderer who pulled him from the forest are the same man. And yet… 

_Did you know that emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?_

Even then, at the beginning of this, Ed had challenged him, pushed back with what Oswald had initially assumed to be fearless stupidity. Now, after everything, stupidity isn’t a word he would quickly associate with Edward. Reckless, yes. Gambler. Addict. But never stupid. Between that first meeting and now, Ed has learnt the stakes of the game and knows when he has a winning hand. 

Just as Oswald knows when he must fold. 

"I'm beyond help. Forget me, my friend." Oswald swallows, mouth dry as a sudden thought strikes him. "But… If you could take care of my mother's grave-"

He knows that asking this man he barely knows (who has _drugged_ him no less) is a risk. Yet somehow, he feels secure in his request. Ed has seen his grief first hand, witnessed the Penguin utterly crippled - he already knows where to twist the knife if he should so wish. Oswald has nothing left to lose but the idea of his mother’s grave unattended for weeks, months...

"-I would be very grateful." Oswald licks his lips, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "If you can visit occasionally, tell her I'm thinking of her…" 

He cannot find the words to finish his request and he wonders that his pride is really so ruined that he can barely bite back a pitiful _please-_

"I will."

Those two quiet words force a rush of held breath from Oswald's lips. He smiles but the lines of his face feel tight, like cellophane stretched over skin. "She likes lilies." 

"Occasional visits, lilies, check."

_I could kiss you._

The utterly unexpected words almost trip from his lips, spilling out from the gratitude sticky in his chest. He catches them just in time, thank all that is holy, but it makes him pause. 

Oswald can't deny that there have been a few fleeting moments stolen over the last few days when he has felt Ed’s eyes on him. When the air had seemed to tremble with something not fully formed, not quite finished but tangible all the same. When Oswald had held a knife against paper-thin skin, when they had ended the miserable life of Mr Leonard, not quite knowing who had dealt the final blow, when Oswald had first put on a suit and saved Jim Gordon, triumphant. 

When, in the deep dead of night, Ed had thought Oswald was asleep. 

Edward's eyes were always there in the dark. Watching.

Oswald inhales a watery breath, and the world swims around him. _Enough of that._

"Thank you."

He has tasted friendship these last few days and, if he is entirely honest with himself, it has been intoxicating. Those beautiful bursts of nectar on his tongue, of carefree laughter and each dazzling smile Edward has pulled from him - Oswald is so grateful. No matter what the future may hold he is determined to fight for this friendship, be it Jim's or Ed's.

_See what your death has brought me, mother. A true friend. Even now you watch over me._

The rustle of keys breaks Oswald from his reverie. "Alright Cobblepot, time to go. Arkham's calling." 

The guard must see the shock on his face which he doesn’t quite catch in time. "You are insane, right?" 

Large, sweaty hands manoeuvre Oswald out of the cell, roughly pushing him up the stairs. He barely resists the urge to look back over his shoulder and meet those dark irises one last time.

Yet, something in him knows that if he does so he will freeze, crystallise into a pillar of salt and give the game away. So, he resists.

He feels Ed's eyes on him all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written anything other than University essays in a very long time, so apologies if this feels a tad rusty. 
> 
> Ever since the end of Gotham I've desperately wanted to write something as a personal send off to Oswald and Edward's beautiful relationship, staying as true to the beats established in canon with a bit of filling in the blanks. This story seems to be it. Each chapter is complete, bar the final one, and sits at around 20,000 words - I promise each entry gets progressively longer, deeper and just _more_.
> 
> So, entirely too late, I present my love letter to Oswald and Ed. I hope you and your families are well and that this provides a little distraction from the chaos around us. Enjoy this trip down memory lane, and a little exploration of one of many futures which may be in store for the Penguin and the Riddler...


	2. Honey

The second time Oswald wants to kiss Ed, it is a little more private and much more genuine. 

Edward no longer insists on calling him ‘Mr Penguin’ and each murmured _Oswald_ feels like a victory. They have both collected pretty souvenirs from Arkham, proudly displayed just across the room for all to see. Oswald Cobblepot has even become Mayor of Gotham City, elected not out of fear or bribery but adoration. 

_If only you could see me now, Mother._

Falling in love was by no means the next obvious step, yet on reflection it would seem oddly poetic. Inevitable. Ed might have even used the word ‘fate’. 

"I hope you know, Oswald… I would do anything for you. You can always count on me." 

For the rest of his life, Oswald will never know how to describe this moment. How can words adequately capture _this,_ these pivotal, precious seconds which go on to define not only his own life, but the life of the city and its many children. 

Is it the first domino to fall? The pebble which brings down rocks and disaster upon thousands? The innocent spark that quickly soars into roaring wildfire?

Whatever pitiful words he ascribes to it, one thing is certain - nothing can ever be the same.

The world seems to hold its breath as Oswald finds himself inching forwards, pulled towards this impossible, incredible man almost against his will. The quickly diminishing air between them virtually vibrates as something magnetic tugs Oswald towards his new centre of gravity, and beneath his feet the plates of the earth shift and realign and _collide-_

Oswald clutches Ed to him as warmth floods his chest, utterly unexpected and joyous and so tender he can scarcely believe it. This can't be- it can't be real. Surely not. Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin cannot be allowed something this beautiful, this precious, this sacred.

_I can’t be bought yet I can be stolen with a glance._

Oswald has to blink back tears as something heavy sinks into his bones, an emotion beginning to settle like a physical, permanent weight in his chest. 

_I'm worthless to one but priceless to two._

His fingers spasm against silken shoulders.

 _What am I?_

The world is gold and honey and Oswald doesn't dare breathe as Ed holds him ever closer. 

_Love._

It feels like an eternity before they part. Immediately Oswald finds himself longing for that warmth; the further he pulls away, the more he can feel the phantom weight of Ed's arms around him, setting in like an addiction.

 _I could kiss you right now._

The thought is a rush, adrenaline making his head dizzy with the sheer possibility of such a notion. Now more than a mere phrase, thrown out meaninglessly.

 _I really could kiss you. I want to kiss you._

Attraction is not an utterly foreign concept to Oswald, yet it has always been removed from any true opportunity. Fantasy or fabrication has never been real, never held the weight of actuality until today, and Oswald could never have prepared himself for the freight train of emotion which would accompany such a sensation. 

He can feel that centre of gravity kicking in again, that tug low in his gut whispering to lean forward, just a few more inches-

"I'm sorry, Oswald, but I…" Ed grimaces as he swallows and looks away. "I think I need to rest after tonight's excitement."

"Of course!" Oswald immediately rises with Ed, mentally chastising himself for being so selfish as to think of _kissing_ an injured man. Butch Gilzean will pay for this. "I'm sorry for keeping you up. You must rest."

Ed waves a hand, as if to bat away the words. "You’ve nothing to apologise for, Oswald." 

Even as he says the words, Oswald feels something cold snake around his heart. He doesn’t know why but something instinctive wants to refute Ed's statement, as if he has just failed Ed in some secret way and needs to come clean. 

_For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness._

Silencing those pinwheel thoughts, Oswald smooths down his suit jacket to settle his trembling fingers. 

_No, nothing will ruin this for me, not tonight, not-_

"Oswald." Ed pauses by the door and casts a gentle smile back at him that makes Oswald’s legs feel weak. "Sleep well." 

He wants to kiss him every moment of every day after that. 

Oswald dreams of kissing Ed in a hundred different ways and places. He imagines reaching for the pepper at the breakfast table and pressing his lips into those dark curls, not yet smoothed and ordered for the day ahead. He dreams of the moments before a press conference, standing on tiptoe for a kiss on the cheek, like donning the last piece of armour before battle. 

Sometimes, alone and at night, he will imagine what Ed's lips would feel like against his. What that sharp tongue which can dress down impetuous employees and senators of state would feel like dressing down him. What it would take to make those eyes which he has watched darken in bloodlust turn to him and _hunger._

Every morning he wakes from dreams of fire-light and honey. Every evening the ache in his chest burrows deeper to offset the fluttering of his heart. Every day he falls a little further.

How can Ed not know? Surely Oswald is being blatantly, embarrassingly obvious in his affection. He can barely look at Edward without feeling his face heat, heart stuttering at the mere sound of his voice, as if the tax reports he summarises each morning are as mesmerising as love sonnets. 

It is agony, those weeks. Loving in silence. Confessing in secret. His heart seems to grow fuller each day and his lungs seize with each breath, each moment spent with him but not _with_ him a fresh torment to match Arkham. Still, he wouldn't change it. Not for the world. 

After the hundredth aborted confession, words fizzling out like the rustling of strings, Oswald finally steps out.

"There is something I would like to discuss in a more private setting. Shall we say dinner, at the mansion. Eight o’clock?” 

The smile Ed gives him slides through him like butter and, for one blinding second, he hopes. "I'll pick us up a nice bottle of wine."

_Life brings you one love, Oswald. When you find it, run._

Of course, limping and wounded as he is, it is no surprise he comes in second place. 

_I met someone. And I think I’m in love._

If only Ed had merely been missing. The idea of his Chief of Staff lost and hurting and alone had once turned Oswald's veins to fear and adrenaline - now it fills him with spiteful longing. A hostage scenario could have been dealt with. He would have parted with anything to bring Edward home, to recover what was wrongfully stolen from him, wreaked the worst vengeance imaginable-

But instead, Ed had gone willingly. For the petty price of a dead woman’s face and love poetry, he had sold himself the lie of a boring, ordinary life. _If you wanted Greek tragedy and Shakespearean sonnets, you didn’t need to go to her. If you’d told me I would have done anything for you, Ed. I would have given you anything._

Where once Oswald woke from dreams of flame and honey, now he dreams of blood and concrete. 

The night Oswald returns from the bloodbath masquerading as the Founders dinner he is so _tired;_ all he wants is to find and lose himself in those arms which are so warm and strong and _his-_

But instead he walks in on them, kissing like childhood sweethearts and she has the audacity to blush as he meets her eye.

“Oswald. Good evening.”

Ed looks the happiest he’s ever seen him.

Everything is so awfully _wrong;_ Oswald can barely breathe as he limps up the stairs of the Manor. She is so pure, so innocent, so abhorrently _good_ it appals him. 

Ed deserves blood which can boil and iron on his lips. He deserves to be kissed with passion and fire and none of this odious faux sweetness. If only he had been braver, said something sooner, insisted on drinking one of his own hundred _bloody_ wine bottles. But no, he had been a coward and his punishment is one of the cruellest Gotham could have devised.

Every time he sees that _woman,_ Isabelle or whatever the hell her name is, all he can taste is bile. His fingers twitch for the weight of a knife and with his eyes he traces the exact line it would draw across her oesophagus, scarlet and gushing. 

_You love him too._

Most insulting of all, it barely takes her two minutes to realise. How can an idiot librarian see what Ed’s brilliant mind had missed, what has Oswald done to deserve fate’s ire, why must he fight tooth and claw for every single thing that he loves, why can he never just get what he is _owed-_

_I won't let him go._

Well, that settles it. 

The bitch has wormed her way so perfectly into Ed's heart that settling things peaceably is no longer an option. Ed has never seen because she has blinded him. Ed’s happiness is an illusion and Oswald is the only one who can save him, the only one who sees him as he truly is, sees what he can become. 

Warmth and light sharpen to ice and fury, cold and calculating. His mother's advice haunts his waking moments, dogs every staggering step he takes. 

_Life gives you one love. One chance. Run or lose it forever._

If the little idiot wishes to remain an obstacle then there is no other option than to see to her immediate removal. 

This is all for Edward's sake. He will see that eventually. And, after all, he did warn her. 

_Don't you see, my love? I would do anything for you, Edward. Anything._


	3. Mist (Interlude)

He wants to kiss him even now. 

With rain rivulets running down soaked green lapels and eyes staring him down, cold as bullets. As far as he can be from the warmth of a hearth and an embrace which once made his heart melt, Oswald wants to kiss him.

He knows what he did was selfish. He still cannot bring himself to regret it. Even if it has made Ed look at him like he is a stranger.

Like he is nothing. 

“You can’t do this.”

Mist curls around Oswald's feet. For the briefest moment he dares to wonder if Ed is crying. 

"I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her." 

The waters embrace him like an old friend. He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can, until there is so much red it obscures everything.

Even in the darkness he still reaches for him.


	4. Ice

After that, Oswald does not think about kissing Edward Nygma for a very long time. He wraps his heart in barbed wire and bullet shells and memories like daggers, until he finally freezes it entirely. 

Ice, illuminated by stage lights and paraded in public. That is where his heart resides for all of Gotham to see. A frozen mockery of what once beat and breathed and bled. 

_It's the least I could do._

Everything is fine. Cold and numb and _fine._ He can rule, hold court and enforce the Pax Penguina as he should have done long ago without distractions.

So what if he talks to the ice every now and then, just to bemoan the lack of intelligence in the criminal underworld these days? And what does it matter if he brushes his fingers against the ice before he leaves the Lounge, like some strange good luck charm? Ed is frozen and Oswald is safe. It doesn't mean anything. 

It doesn't. 

But then the ice shatters and Oswald doesn't recognise the man who emerges. There is none of that dazzling brilliance left beneath this stranger’s dull, doe-like eyes. The razor sharp intelligence which once mesmerised him has vanished like mist on Gotham pier and all he is left with is stupid riddles, a cheap suit and a man brandishing a gun like a children's toy. 

_You're just Ed Nygma. Not even Ed Nygma._

Before, it had hurt to look at Ed. Pressed against the bars of an oversized birdcage or staring defiantly up as a gun traced the point of his chin, each breath had crowded too close to his ribcage, hissing against a muscle inflamed by pain and rage and heartbreak. 

_You’re here because, what? I didn’t love you back?_

But now… Oswald just feels hollow. A sad, humourless pity is the only remnant of what had once burned him from the inside out. His lack of feeling seems almost a disappointment after the visceral terror of the fear toxin.

Oh, the sweet irony that both of them should be doomed to live as empty shells of what they once were, what they could have been.

 _Goodbye, Ed._

Oswald spends months drowning his memories in alcohol, ignoring each report of Ed's blatant, infantile taunts, telling himself that this revenge is better, that even warm and walking, the faded ghost of a man masquerading as 'the Riddler' is no threat to him. 

Edward has lost his mind, just like Oswald has lost his heart. Poetry, really. 

Of course the bloody boy just has to get involved. It is inconceivable that what begins to thaw the ice in Oswald’s chest is a _child,_ a scruffy orphan who cannot even speak, and yet, Gotham has always had a twisted sense of humour. The city gives him the son he can never have, just as it once offered him the lover who would never want him. One more bullet, one more reminder of his utter deficiency in every area that matters. 

He tells the boy - shun friendship. It is an indulgence that will only be exploited. Do not be fooled. 

However, despite his best efforts, the child keeps coming back and each nervous smile or murderous doodle goes straight to Oswald’s sentimentality. Before he knows it, he has committed cannibalism just to save an orphan’s life. Not once does he regret it.

The boy himself is no threat, but the woman who introduced them certainly is. 

Sofia Falcone is a viper, much more so than Barbara or Tabitha have ever been. The Sirens never pretend to be anything other than their vicious selves, but Miss Falcone… She is kind and gentle and brings him dinner and massages his crippled knee and it’s the first time in over a year that anyone has touched him like that, the first time since-

Oswald is so tired of being alone.

One evening, Sofia sings to him. That night, he dreams of a different voice, a shadowy apartment, a gentle melody whispered through moonlight. _My Mother looks over me…_

It terrifies him, how close he comes to cutting himself open on such a precarious knife edge. He doesn’t think his heart is strong enough to bleed out for a second time. Thankfully, Martin reveals Sofia’s deception before he is lost completely.

_I don’t want to leave you._

Saying goodbye to Martin is not the worst pain Oswald has ever felt in his life. No, he has experienced too much of grief’s ineffable depth and darkness to mistake this for the true agony of death and separation.

Yet, it is a loss which cuts deeper than he’d anticipated. Another scar on his chequered heart, another weight to struggle under. Still, he continues on, because there is no other choice.

Arkham, at least, provides ample distraction from it all. 

Oswald had by no means been a perfect Mayor. While the going had been good his approval ratings had soared and, for a city like Gotham, a popular and somewhat effective leader was damn near miraculous. Still, of every administrative failure he regrets from his time in office, there is one which he holds supreme:

Not fixing Arkham Asylum's bloody heating. 

Every day Oswald wakes up freezing, fingers numb: the pitiful excuse for an overall he wears might as well be made from string and paper for all the insulation it provides. As his leg seizes more with each passing day, he comforts himself with the knowledge that this is nothing compared to Hugo Strange's torture. His body may suffer but his mind at least remains his own.

Then he meets Jerome. 

_Make me laugh._

Sleeping becomes a near impossible luxury, now he knows Jerome has such free access to the whole asylum. The approval of madmen which Oswald has won at the expense of his pride could vanish at any moment and he would be left utterly defenceless.

Paranoia curls its claws into Oswald’s shoulder, and he is left desperate, terrified. The jeers of Jerome and his merry crew follow him, waking or sleeping. Even the walls seem to vibrate with howling. As the screams of Captain Barnes and the babbling nonsense of the Mad Hatter needle into his skin, itching away inside his veins, Oswald wonders whether he might actually lose his grip on sanity for real.

_Please, I can’t do this alone, just, please, someone- help me._

For once, Gotham hears him.

_I am held captive all day, my brilliance locked away. This prison must be broken, the key - my name which must be spoken._

Oswald had almost forgotten what joy feels like. He remembers now.

It is cold, as he limps down the corridor, the fresh cut on his cheek stinging with each step. The right half of his body aches, leg dragging heavily against the tiled floor. He struggles to breathe past the anxiety and convulsing hope in his gut.

He knows this is his only chance.

The moment he sees that flash of green down the hall, shimmering like the mirage of a half-dead man, his heart trips in his chest. 

_He's here._

“I knew you’d come.” Oswald couldn't have kept the exuberance out of his voice if he'd tried. For the first time in so long his lips are pulled back in a genuine smile. "I knew you'd understand my letter."

His gaze sweeps over Ed's shocked expression, marvelling at how different he looks to that day on the docks. His hair is ruffled, loose strands hanging limp over his forehead and Oswald's fingers itch to brush them aside.

What a pair they make. Still, even like this, it is so _good_ to see him. 

"How did you know I'd be here?" Ed sounds so lost, eyes wide like they had been at the pier when Oswald pulled bullet shells from his suit pocket. The look doesn't suit him. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I'm not talking to you, Ed. I'm talking to _him."_ Oswald laughs, the sound shrill even to his ears, and half of him wonders if this is a habit he has picked up from Jerome. Regardless, he can't help it, not when his plan has worked so beautifully, not when Ed is here, so _close._ "He read my letter." 

_"No."_ Ed stands abruptly, alarm clear in every jagged line of his body. "I came here to save Lee." 

Oswald can't stop laughing, a record stuttering on repeat. _He read my letter. He saw. He came back to me. He needs me too._

"You're wrong." The fire is back in Ed's voice, strong and determined and useless and Oswald can't stop laughing. "I am Ed. Edward Nygma, that is it. Lee believes in me, she sees me for who I am." 

_No no no Edward, we’ve been here before. I'm the only one who sees you, for all that you are and all you can be. Don't you remember? I did try to tell you once, just before you murdered me. It seems you need reminding._

"But I see _him,_ Ed." Oswald cannot help it but raise his voice, something in the words grating like a string not properly tuned. 

"No…"

Finally, Ed gets it. The fear in his eyes sends the most delicious thrill through Oswald's skin. 

_I know you better than you know yourself._

Ed reaches out blindly, hands shaking as he scrambles for the pen to sign away everything and immediately anger flares through Oswald’s veins. _Don't you dare._ He launches himself forward, hands grasping desperately at the crumpled lapels of Ed's suit. 

The sudden heat as they crash into each other’s space is almost unbearable. 

"Lee Thompkins may have made Ed strong-" His hands flutter with adrenaline and his voice croons out, whisper thin. "But I see the other you. The one whose name I wouldn't speak."

Oswald hisses out a breath. When was the last time he was this close to Ed? So painfully close, skin on fire, as if he is standing next to the sun. It must have been months…

"But because he's earned it, and because I need him, I'm saying it now."

"No, please." Ed begins to struggle, the desperation in the words no match for the abject terror in his eyes. "Please, _no-"_

"I need you-”

Ed’s heart beats frantically between them, bruises blooming underneath each other’s fingers and Oswald feels no remorse, no pity, just this breath-taking, exhilarating _freedom-_

_“Riddler."_

The word rings out, the toll of a death sentence and Oswald, awed, watches the final moments of the most beautiful murder he’s ever performed.

Like a poison setting in, Ed begins to convulse, shakes wracking his body as if a physical transformation is taking place, tearing through his bones, ripping open his organs. 

A curled fist clenches Oswald’s collar, tight enough he struggles to breathe. And then that hand is on his face, skin on skin. Ed’s fingers burn against his flesh like brands. 

Tectonic plates shift beneath their shaking limbs and Oswald is suddenly back in that dockside warehouse, bound against a rusting car bonnet with acid hanging overhead, Ed choking him with fury in his irises.

But now, those eyes aren’t furious.

They are full of something else entirely. A dark shadow passes over those twin points, as if something behind them has just been eclipsed. 

_I see you, Ed. Finally. I see you._

They are both gasping, chests heaving as if they have been struggling for hours and not mere moments. Ed's beautiful eyes take in Oswald slowly, delicious and dripping and, with Ed’s thumb still pressed against his cheekbone, every tremor feels like a caress.

And oh- _there_ is the heat, that fire sinking low in his gut once again, that ravenous hunger which Oswald has forcefully repressed for the last year.

_You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you._

Oswald cannot help himself. In this stretching, stolen moment, he imagines what it would be like to give in to that magnetic force, to close the infinitesimal space between them and force their lips together. What would the Riddler do? Would this force of nature before him send him grovelling to the floor in disgust? Would he pull back with cruel laughter? Or, even worse, would he kiss him back, bury bruises into Oswald’s skin, slam him against the desk and take what he wants.

Oswald allows himself to live in that delusion for the space of a broken breath, to be swept back months and just pretend...

And then he slices himself free, crushes and compresses and suffocates that thought until he can pretend it never existed. These are luxuries the Penguin can no longer afford. Not when it is Ed.

Not anymore.

Oswald steps away shakily, smoothing the ruffles of his uniform where Ed’s fingers had tugged and twisted barely seconds ago. The cold is there to meet him, numbing shackles which wrap around him. Frozen, once again.

“Shall we get to work?” The man before him smiles back, lips split too wide, jaw half unhinged as he laughs.

Oswald swallows, lightheaded, and distantly wonders if he is crying. 

_Don’t you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?_

Oswald watches Ed's dark eyes practically glitter as he scans the room, gleeful, as if seeing it for the first time.

"How do you feel?" Oswald tries to ignore how watery his voice sounds and instead focuses on staying standing as tremors lance up his leg. 

_"Magnificent,"_ Ed breathes, delighted eyes flicking back to Oswald. "I can't thank you enough." 

Oswald swallows against the shiver those words provoke. “Well, it's always a pleasure to help a friend.”

Ed flashes that razor smile at him once more, white teeth against red lips and Oswald feels something in his chest seize. _So close…_ And then, Ed is moving, rummaging through the desk to pull out papers, fingers deftly sorting through floor plans of the Asylum.

“You know you can always count on me, Oswald.”

Ed- no, the Riddler does not spare him so much as a glance as he says those words but even so, Oswald has to look away.

_I hope you know, Oswald, that I would do anything for you._

On second thoughts, Oswald is glad it is so cold in Arkham. It makes it easier to remember that there are frozen tiles beneath his feet and not a warm fireplace crackling a few metres away, the scent of honey in the air…


	5. Bridge (Interlude)

From then on, Oswald stalwartly refuses to think about kissing Edward Nygma, the Riddler- whatever the hell the man wants to call himself. 

The betrayal at Gotham City’s bank helps cement that commitment a little, yet even this latest entry in a long list of broken promises and misplaced trust prompts more anger with Lee than hatred towards Ed.

Besides, Oswald had half resigned himself to this happening from the start. Maybe not so quickly, but even so… 

_Trust is so very hard to find in Gotham._

Lee Thompkins had never struck Oswald as a cruel woman, certainly not when standing in such fine company as Barbara Kean or Tabitha Galavan. However, she had seemed entirely comfortable with using Ed to achieve her own ends, pulling his strings with long looks and whispered words. 

Oswald had thought, after all this time, all those months spent fortifying his heart against the withering, debilitating affliction of loving Edward Nygma, that he couldn't hurt like he had once. That he was safe. 

Oh, how _foolish_ he can be.

Realising that the Riddler, just like poor old Ed, is just as easily swayed by pretty eyes and batted eyelashes stings like a slap in the face, a bullet to the gut. Bitterness threatens to curl around his heart and once more make its home there. 

Too often, late at night, he finds himself thinking - _why her? Why another Kringle, another Isabella? Why never me?_

Of course, Oswald already knows the answer. Ed had told him. 

_Because you are a spoiled child who throws a tantrum any time he doesn’t get what he wants. Especially when what he wants doesn’t want him back..._

So, he doesn’t think about kissing Ed, doesn’t think about him at all. He stamps out every traitorous butterfly, stifles every quivering heartbeat, _squeezes_ each hopeful thought into oblivion and gets on with his life, with survival, with revenge.

Gotham has a cruel sense of humour sometimes. Because the next time he sees Ed he does kiss him. It just doesn’t count.

_I want you to know that I consider you a friend. And I am truly sorry..._

Oswald limps towards the entrance of Lee’s haunt, nestled in the very heart of the Narrows. The world around him is full darkness. He does not know why he is here. 

Barely a few hours ago, Oswald had stood, dumbstruck and watched Gotham’s bridges explode, scatter into rubble and dust in a horrific spectacle of red and gold. Utterly helpless in the face of such staggering destruction.

And then he had fled, finally completing the cycle of revenge he had spent months plotting. He does not regret punishing Tabitha in the slightest. Nothing she feels at this moment could ever compare to the monumental suffering Oswald had gone through after his beloved mother had bled out in his arms. 

And yet… if Tabitha could have loved another. Miss Kean perhaps. Murdering Barbara would have been a far more gleeful occasion after their chequered history while Butch- 

Once, he had been a friend. Perhaps his first true friend in Gotham. 

Visions flicker behind Oswald’s eyes. Blood, scarlet and bursting, Butch staggering to the floor, gaze dull and cold, just like his Mother’s had-

Oswald pauses by the door to the club, gloved fingers resting on its wooden panels. 

_There is no such thing as tidy revenge._

Gotham stands alone, just like Oswald and he can’t bear it anymore. He is so tired, so _lonely_ he cannot begin to think of the future, of what new ways he must find to survive in this strange wasteland that was once his city, his home, he needs a moment of respite, of peace, needs someone that _knows,_ that _understands._

Loathe as he is to admit it, he needs Edward Nygma. Just as he always does.

_You cannot have one without the other._

“Do you want us to wait outside, boss?” 

Oswald sighs, blinking up at the hired help. 

“No, you might as well come in.” He sweeps a quick gaze over the lackey, large muscles bulging against a tight suit jacket. Not a bad sight, he supposes. “I don’t know what state to expect them in, but I doubt they’ll attack on sight.” 

_Hopefully they’ll at least be fully clothed._

Again, Oswald swallows down the bile which the image of Ed and Lee _involved_ conjures and steps through the old club’s doors.

“I like what you’ve done with the place, Lee,” he calls out, projecting a confidence he does not feel. Delicately, he runs a gloved finger along the bar countertop. Squeaky clean. 

He finds his lips tugging into a brief, bittersweet smile. _Typical Ed and his cleanliness._

“I’m impressed. You wouldn’t even know we’re in the Narrows.” 

Oswald turns and waits a moment, facing the echoing silence. Odd. 

“Lee? Edw- _Riddler?"_ Oswald’s voice raises slightly and he tries not to let the rising panic he feels bleed into the words. Had they really left Gotham? Together? Just the thought of it hurts, a low ache of abandonment curling tight in his chest.

“It’s a bit rude to ignore a guest like this.”

Oswald looks up and that’s when he notices. His gaze catches on two shapes, slumped at the end of the room beside a table which stands imposing over it all, like some sort of sacrificial altar.

“Ed, what-”

No.

Those shapes are bodies. And Oswald would recognise that shade of green anywhere.

In an instant, all of the pain and rage and betrayal of the last few years is sucked away, leaving him breathless, hollow but for the utter terror he felt so long ago, watching as Ed’s lifeless body crumpled a few feet away from him in Barbara’s old club, Butch’s fingerprints raw and red on his pale skin. 

_“Edward!”_

He is running, dragging his crippled leg as fast as the damn thing will move. He half trips up the stairs as his right foot catches, landing heavily on the ground next to the motionless body in front of him. _This can’t be happening, it can’t, not to him-_

His heart pounds, face unbearably hot as he turns over the body with shaking hands. Oswald has rarely prayed in his life, not since his childhood, but hell, if he isn’t praying now.

His prayers don’t help. It’s still Ed. 

“No...”

The world is a blur of white-noise as Oswald stares down at the man who holds his heart, even now, after everything. 

He isn’t breathing.

“No.” The word is pulled from his lips, ears filled with wax and static. He can’t stop saying that word, over and over and over, spilling from his lips like water. “No, no, no, no please no-"

Oswald’s knees are sticky as he scrambles forwards, blood, _Ed’s_ blood slick over the floor like a spilled drink. Frantically he claws at Ed’s clothes, desperately searching for the cause of this atrocity.

“Boss, what’s-”

“Get the others. _Now.”_ Oswald half spits, half screams. “Fucking _move.”_

The knife is so small he almost misses it. Metal jutting out of Ed’s stomach like a stray piece of barbed wire on the Arkham perimeter. It is drowning in a sea of red. 

Distantly he hears the sounds of shouts and frantic footsteps, but they are far away. There is so much blood, so much blood _everywhere,_ Oswald can’t breathe, doesn’t want to, not if Ed isn’t-

_For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness._

Physically wrenching himself out of the plummeting vortex of his thoughts, Oswald tears his gloves off with his teeth and hurriedly pushes trembling fingers against Ed’s pulse point. He waits. 

And waits.

“No,” Oswald hisses out the word like venom. “You are _not dead._ I won’t allow it.”

Yet, even as he says the words, he remembers holding his mother, a knife in her back and blood on his hands. He remembers his father with foam in his mouth, dying like an animal. He remembers Fish, bright mismatched eyes going cold and dull on the concrete. 

And here he is, yet again. 

Gotham has only ever taught him how to lose. 

He feels like he’s about to pass out, adrenaline and sheer terror coursing through his veins, turning his limbs to water. 

_You're my best friend, Oswald. Remember that._

Blinking away tears and ignoring the protestations of his injured knee strained against the awkward angle, Oswald moves Ed, arranging him flat on his back, arms to the side, head tilted back to facilitate the air flow.

His fingers lace together, hands clenched as they rest against Ed’s shirt. Thirty counts. Even pressure. Keep breathing.

“You don’t get to do this to me.”

_One, two, three-_

“Do you hear me, Edward Nygma?”

_Ten, eleven, twelve-_

“You are _not_ allowed to die.”

_Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen-_

"You can't-" 

_Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two-_

“Not without me.”

_Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty._

Oswald falters for a moment, heart stuttering. Looking down, Ed is pale. Paler than Oswald has ever seen him. Red paints the left corner of his mouth. 

He looks beautiful.

_Life gives you one love, Oswald. When you find it, **run.** _

Oswald surges down, presses his lips to the man he loves and breathes out everything he has.

_Please, Ed, please, I’m giving you everything, all I’ve got, take it, have it all, if I could give you my beating heart I would, please, please live, please don’t make me live in this city without you, I can’t do this without you, please don’t make me, please come back, just please, Ed-_

He pulls back up and it feels like he is breaking the surface of Gotham River, gasping for air, chest burning. 

The world is frozen, just like the Riddler’s skin and Oswald cannot breathe.

_Please, Ed, please, for me, just this once..._

Ed inhales, the tiniest sound and the world collapses in around him. The sound of waves crashes in his eardrums, somewhere outside a car screeches to a halt, boots hitting the floor behind him. Oswald gasps in air like a drowning man. 

“Thank _God.”_

Ed’s eyes stay closed but Oswald doesn’t care. He’s alive. He’s _alive._

“Don’t worry sir, we’ve got him.”

Oswald is too tired to argue as his men begin to lift Ed between them. “Just be _careful_ with him,” he says with not nearly enough bite, beginning to rise on unsteady feet.

“Do we bring her too, boss?” 

For the first time, Oswald looks across to see the other lifeless body of Lee Thompkins, crumpled so close, a similar knife impaled in her stomach. Instinctively he feels that whiplash vindictiveness. 

_A proper Romeo and Juliet you make. What did I tell you? This was always going to end in a bloodbath._

For the space of a breath he considers saying no, order his men to leave her and walk away. Let the deceiver die by Ed’s blade, save the man he loves, keep him for himself, him alone, all _mine not hers how dare she ever try to steal him-_

But he stops himself. No. Surely he’s learned by now. Surely he was taught this lesson long ago.

“Bring her too. If Ed lives, so does she.” 

Oswald is many things but he’ll be damned if he plays the fool twice.

“You want to be with Lee, _fine,”_ Oswald grinds out under his breath as he helps carry Ed to the door, “that’s your mistake. But you won’t hold me responsible for the death of another one of your bloody girlfriends.” 

They manoeuvre them to the car and Oswald spares a moment to be grateful that they brought the van and not the Bentley. Lee is draped across three seats while Ed lies opposite, one arm dangling to the floor, almost as if he is reaching for her. 

Oswald swallows down the nausea and collapses into the seat adjacent Ed, exhaustion setting in, deep in his bones.

“We going to the hospital, Boss?”

“They can’t do anything, thanks to Valeska…” Ed and Lee are practically dead, Oswald realises in a startling second. They don't need medicine - they need a miracle worker. 

“Drive for Strange.”

The van takes off, tires screeching against asphalt and Oswald breathes out slowly against the thrumming panic in his chest. With blood stained fingers he gently brushes aside Ed’s hair, matted with sweat and blood. 

He looks strangely peaceful. Calm. That frenzied, frenetic, fantastic mind finally at rest. Oswald has never found something more disturbing.

If only for his own sanity Oswald digs his fingers against Ed’s pulse point and grounds himself on the struggling, sputtering beat stammering away under his skin.

“Do you believe in fate, Ed? I didn’t, until I met you,” Oswald whispers, throat tight.

For a second he thinks he catches the slightest flicker of Ed’s eyelids.

“I _promise_ \- I’m going to fix you, Ed.”


	6. Island

_No man is an island, entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main._

For some reason, those words are the first thing to go through Oswald's mind when they get news that the mainland isn’t sending aid. Gotham stands alone, abandoned, a law unto itself. An island, entire of itself.

Better off unencumbered. 

Oswald sits on a throne in the Town Hall as the rising sun scatters red light against vaulted arches and marble statues. A palace fit for a king, a land to rule and a city to conquer - all he has ever wanted.

And yet, his thoughts keep spiralling back to his once murderer, twice traitor. Edward Nygma. The Riddler.

_I promise - I’m going to fix you, Ed._

In the days following the destruction of the bridges, Oswald sleeps in spurts, never managing more than two hours at a time. He works through the night, establishes his influence, secures supporters and supplies, one eye never leaving the phone. Anxiety is a writhing, suffocating thing in his chest, pressure building behind his eardrums until he can barely think.

On the third day, Hugo Strange finally calls.

“You’re in luck, Mr Cobblepot. You got him to me just in time.”

Ed will live. So will Lee. 

For the first time in this new Gotham, Oswald sleeps through the night, relief dragging him under like a guilty man acquitted. 

He does not contact Strange further, does not enquire as to Ed's whereabouts, does not send someone to keep tabs on his movements. He resists the temptation each day, shrugs off those greedy fingers which cling to him, ignores the whispering thoughts that say he should see him, speak to him, confess at long last… 

_You’re here because, what? I didn’t love you back?_

He stops himself each time and limps onwards.

As the weeks stretch into months he doesn't hear from Ed or the Riddler, as if the man never had never existed. Oswald concludes that he has made the right choice, not initiating contact. For all he knows, Ed and Lee have retired together to a cosy apartment somewhere in the Diamond District and are content waiting out this lawless vision of Gotham. 

Oswald isn't about to impose. Not when seeing the two of them happy and content and insufferably _in love_ would kill him quicker than a bullet ever could. 

Ice cream and whiskey is distressingly lacking in this new Gotham, but Oswald allows himself one night alone to indulge in the age-old ceremony of grieving a relationship he never truly had in the first place. _Pitiful._

Still, the alcohol and the frozen chocolate are pleasantly numbing and even facilitate one of the most ground-breaking decisions he has ever made.

Oswald Cobblepot is going to get a dog.

His mother had always wanted one. As a child her family had owned a beautiful, dopey cocker-spaniel but after moving to America she’d never had the money to afford one. Having a dog himself almost makes up for the fact that he cannot visit her grave.

The first night Oswald brings him home, the panting, gormless creature sits on his lap in front of the fire and slobbers all over his face and suit. Oswald finds himself smiling for the first time in weeks.

As for its name… Well. Oswald has spent the last few years of his life speaking his thoughts aloud to Edward, whether as his chief of staff or Iceberg Lounge centrepiece. Even after he’d escaped the habit had become so entrenched Oswald still found himself musing over strategy, speaking Ed’s name into empty rooms as if he could conjure him out of thin air.

Old habits die hard and no other name falls as easily from his lips. So, Edward it is.

It is fitting that Oswald falls a little bit in love with this second Edward. He makes sure to give him plenty of kisses, a comfortable bed to sleep in and the highest quality meat he can find. After all, any Edward deserves the best.

Oswald only realises how embarrassing the dog’s name might appear until he is yelling it in front of half the GCPD. 

However, other events at Haven quickly overshadow any momentary humiliation. 

Oswald’s dreams are filled with fire and smoke as countless bodies blacken behind his eyelids. Haven burns like a bonfire and days later his skin still carries the heat of the inferno. What’s worse, voices from his nightmares begin to echo in his waking mind, twisting and turning through the long shadows.

_Everyone hated you. No one ever respected you. They only saw you for what you really are - a tiny freak who used to own an umbrella. Nothing more..._

One evening in the library, trying hopelessly to distract himself from it all, Oswald comes across that phrase again: _'no man is an island'._ The poem's message is admirable yet a tad too optimistic to ever have any bearing on the reality of Gotham. However, his gaze snags over the final lines. 

_And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee._

This time, it is these lines which reverberate in Oswald's skull when he finds out the identity of the butcherer of Haven. 

_Oh, Ed, what have you done…_

His body goes into a cold sweat, heart punching against his ribcage as, for the first time in five years, Oswald can't see a way out. 

He cannot understand it. Why would Ed, _his_ Edward massacre hundreds of civilians? He knows Ed has an unsettling history with his darker self, even being forced to act without his consent but this… 

Haven wasn't the work of compulsion or fixation; it wasn’t the crime of a man desperate for attention and infamy. This was cold, carefully calculated and beyond cruel. 

Ed would never be safe if this information got out. Not from the authorities, not from the GCPD, not from the gangs - even the most barbaric of Gotham’s underbelly despises what happened at Haven. Oswald himself had clamoured for his death but a few days ago, not knowing who had done it. But now…

Now he feels sick.

Oswald loves him. Even now, even knowing what he has done, even if Ed has truly lost his mind and become a monster beyond recognition or redemption - Oswald still loves him. 

The fact that Edward doesn't love him back is inconsequential really. Oswald is still bound to him, just as irrevocably as he always was.

_You cannot have one without the other._

So, the path forward is simple. Oswald sends out his eyes and ears into Gotham's dangerous streets, desperate to find the man before he does something even more stupid. He’ll find a way off this forsaken island for both of them, protect Ed with his dying breath if that is what it takes - he just has to find the damn man first.

In a stunning turn of events, and for perhaps the first time in their chequered relationship, Ed finds him first. 

_You named your dog after me?_

Their long-awaited reunion is punctuated by a gun pointed at Oswald’s chest, rage in Ed’s eyes and a frankly hideous haircut. For all the terror of the last few weeks this abrupt meeting leaves Oswald feeling winded, caught off guard. 

Ed speaks and it is like trying to decipher an unknown language, Oswald utterly clueless as to its meaning.

Something about murderous puppets? 

Ed looks an absolute mess, red, sagging skin under his eyes, jaw beginning to show stubble, hair unwashed and sticking out at odd ends, as if Ed has quite literally been tearing his hair out. His voice is deep, hoarse and Oswald wonders whether Ed has talked to another person all these months. Oswald barely resists the urge to reach out and press his fingers against the trembling pulse at Ed's neck, just to make absolutely sure he really is alive.

Despite everything, Oswald still feels his heart swell with joy at the sight of him. 

"For weeks I've been waking up in strange places, not knowing how I got there or what I did." Ed is more manic than he's ever seen him, concentration lapsing in and out so much that he takes the gun off of Oswald for a few brief seconds. It's a small slip, but still utterly out of character for the usually composed Riddler. 

Oswald's adrenaline begins to kick in as joy turns to dread.

"Driving myself mad, thinking I had gone mad. And now I know that was all your doing." 

The hatred in Ed's eyes is like a bullet in his gut all over again and Oswald feels his jaw loosen with shock. Words which normally come so easily dance just beyond his reach and he struggles to breathe.

"Of all the things you have put me through. _This,"_ he pauses and Oswald half thinks Ed is about to cry, "this is most cruel."

A thousand thoughts, reactions flicker through Oswald’s muscle memory. Outrage, that Ed could ever think he would do something so evil, bitterness and spite like ichor in his mouth - _you think this is cruel, Edward? I didn’t desecrate the remains of your precious Miss Kringle_ \- fear, that Ed has a gun aimed at his heart once again, panic, that he might actually use it, horror, that despite it all, despite Oswald doing everything in his power to prevent this they are back here, enemies, once again.

_Can’t we just pretend that nothing happened? Go back to the way things were? You are the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose you…_

Taking in a slow breath, Oswald forces his jaw to unclench and his muscles to relax, willing a calm that he is nowhere close to feeling. “Ed, I don't know what you're talking about. I did not make you do anything-" 

"What is _'I'll fix you'?_ What did that mean?"

Oswald feels himself flush cold, the vision of Ed's body unnaturally still flashing behind his eyes and he desperately swallows down the suffocating panic of finding Edward half-dead on the floor-

Before he can even try to respond he finds himself being wrenched forwards, Ed's shaking hand clutching him close enough that he feels spit hit him across the face. "You didn't fix me. You _broke_ me." 

"W-wait!" Oswald brings his hands up, attempting to create some space when every nerve ending in his body is screaming. "I said that the night the bridges blew-" 

Something in Ed's eyes shutters and he shoves him away with a snarl, gun arm snapping straight between them. 

"You think I wouldn't remember?" 

The last shred of control slips beyond Oswald’s grasp as the fear turns to anger. "No, Ed, I saved your life, that's _it."_

Bitter resentment is a seething, living thing in his belly. Coiled and squirming and furious at the damn futility of it all. _I can’t even save your life without you hating me, can I?_

"What are you talking about?" 

Oswald growls out a breath of pure frustration. "You had been stabbed, I paid Hugo Strange to save your life-" The connection is made, and Oswald could kick himself for being so utterly stupid. Relief erupts, hot and messy in his chest. _Ed is innocent._ "I bet he did something to you while he was patching you up." 

Ed blinks in quick succession and shakily pushes his glasses back up his nose.

"You paid Hugo Strange to save me?" His voice slopes up at the end, quivering with disbelief and suspicion and Oswald wants to cry because even after _everything_ Ed still doesn't see, still doesn't realise. 

_You paid Hugo Strange to save me?_

_You gave up your revenge for me?_

_Why are you being so kind?_

_"Why?"_

He knows the answer. It is obvious. Blindingly obvious to anyone who has ever spoken to Oswald, seen him and Ed in a room together. 

_I did it because I love you._

Oswald had given that answer once before and been repaid with a slap to the face and a bullet in his gut. Not again. 

Never again.

"What was I supposed to do, let you die?" 

Oswald can almost believe the disaffected words are true, even as something buried deep and sharp in his stomach twists. 

"After Butch you were my only friend." 

Ed's fury is sudden, his raised voice echoing in the arched room. "You shot Butch." 

"Which is why I needed you." Oswald snaps back, matches rage for rage, a thousand other words ready on his tongue, a stream of poison and pain and desperation begging to be released because _I needed you, Ed, the bombs had gone off, the bridges were down, Gotham was cut off, I was half victorious, half sick with guilt and lonely, so damn lonely like I am always lonely, more lonely than I’ve been since you left and I needed you, needed my best friend, needed to know if you were still there or if you’d run away with Lee and left me and how could you leave me when I needed you, like I always need you, like I always want-_

Oswald cannot stop the snarl of frustration curling out and, in what is perhaps the most staggering display of stupidity he has ever performed, he turns his back on Ed, hobbling to the far desk. He could be shot in the back at any moment but, quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn when the alternative is letting those insipid words spill out without his permission. 

He wants to stab something, to cleave and cut and carve until someone else’s heart lies bleeding and broken on the floor for once, until this cripplingly awful, aching, ever-present love just _stops._

Oswald takes one long, steadying breath. Then another. 

Slowly, he turns to find the gun isn't even trained on him. He squares his shoulders. _Good._ Let this be, for once, on his terms. 

"Edward Nygma, if I wanted you to suffer I would never do it in some backhanded way." For the first time since Ed has arrived, Oswald steps forward, towards him. 

Immediately the gun rises, fear flashing in Ed's eyes like a cornered animal. Oswald doesn’t stop.

"If you and I are ever at odds again then you will know without a doubt that _I-"_ Oswald feels the gun slam against his chest, the metal cold against his shirt which suddenly feels paper thin, "am your enemy."

He watches Ed's expression tighten, eyes as dark as oil on asphalt. 

"I promise you that. As a friend." He barely catches the sob, his chest burning against the gun’s barrel. 

They stand there, waiting, with Oswald’s heart in his throat, held out on a platter, quivering against metal. Ed's gaze burns into him and he thinks, not for the first time, that he wouldn’t want to die anywhere else. 

_I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her…_

Ed rips the gun away with a growl and somehow Oswald is still alive. 

The seconds beat out, all the awful tension of the last few minutes slowly draining away with each shuddering breath they draw. Oswald’s legs feel ready to buckle but he refuses to reach for the support of the desk. Not when Ed could so quickly change his mind.

"What a mess." Ed's previously rough voice is softer now, smaller. For the first time Oswald hears the fear which had underscored all of his earlier rage and accusations. "I might have killed you, Oswald."

_That’s never stopped you before._

Ed’s eyes drag up to meet his and there is something there, some hideous, ragged emotion which Oswald could never name, burning in those inky depths. 

Oswald’s breath catches in his throat.

"And if that day comes," Ed says, voice stronger as he steps so comfortably into Oswald's space, "I swear to you that I will stare you in the eye as I stab you in the heart." 

A pretty pair of vows. Oswald cannot stop the small smile from blossoming on his lips, ducking his head in an acquiescing nod. _If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of being a sentimentalist…_

In the silence which stretches between them, breathing finally returning to normal, Oswald looks up at this mess of a man and feels something hard in his chest soften, warmth expanding outwards as he is overwhelmed by the sudden, desperate desire to reach out, close the nebulous distance and- 

_Oh no._ Not again. He is so tired of this, so exhausted by the treacherous lurch of his stomach, the painful tightness in his lungs every time their paths cross. He wishes his mother had told him how much love _burned._

Ed had been foolish to ever think Oswald could break him. How could he? Ed has never let him anywhere close enough to do serious damage.

Broken is a word entirely reserved for the Penguin.

“Look on the bright-side.” Oswald wrestles down that awful urge for what must be the thousandth time and forces himself forward. “If Hugo Strange did do something to you then it means you are not responsible for Haven.”

Ed looks at him, that unreadable expression flickering behind his irises before it blinks away, as if it was never there.

“Where is he?”

For once, Gotham is merciful in providing ample distraction from the staggering emotion of the last few minutes. As Oswald screams for his men, he thinks he hears a distant bell tolling, somewhere in the city.

Later that day, as he is spitting blood onto the GCPD interrogation floor, he feels, for the first time in weeks, utterly sure of himself. Defending a mass-murderer, lying outright to Jim Gordon, ensuring Ed’s innocence is made known – not once does he doubt his course of action. 

_You know, they say you can judge a man by his friends._

Even amidst the uncertainty of it all, he feels a wry amusement curl in the base of his sternum.

After the bridges went down, Oswald had half-resigned himself to never seeing Edward Nygma again.

But, as ever, it would seem fate has different plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem referenced is, of course, "No Man is an Island" by John Donne.


	7. Daggers

_We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…_

Music croons down the hallway of Ed’s hide-out, notes scratched out on what sounds like a gramophone. Oswald finds himself slowing, each uneven step beginning to match the rhythm of this distant melody. He half-wonders if even his anxious heart starts to beat in time.

_But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…_

The track stutters to a stop as he reaches the panelled doors, firelight glimmering from the room within. 

_He’s here._ Oswald inhales slowly, steels himself for being shot on sight and enters.

“After all this time, you’ve come to _me_ for help…”

Well, Oswald has to give it to him. While No Man’s Land has done a terrible disservice to the Riddler’s personal aesthetic, the man has managed to acquire some rather nice digs. Half the books of Gotham’s library must be in this room, not to mention the city’s remaining candelabras. Ed steps out of the shadows, candlelight flickering against the gun aimed at Oswald’s heart, every line of his body utterly relaxed. 

Oswald swallows down a stab of fear and forces himself to match Ed’s easy, indignant posture as he listens to him _monologue._ Honestly, the things he puts up with for this man. 

“...and after naming your _dog_ after me.”

Oswald barely resists rolling his eyes. 

“First of all, I am very fond of that dog. Secondly, I had Hugo Strange save your life.” He licks his lips, rounding off his itemised list that he hopes Ed appreciates, if only for its systematic presentation. “Thirdly, did you really think I didn’t have plans to save you from _Jim Gordon_?”

Ed smiles at him, eyes glowing with something almost _fond_ and Oswald’s chest aches. 

“You always have an answer for everything, don’t you, Oswald?”

Trying not to love Edward is like trying to force his knee to stop aching or will his mother back from the grave. He has tried, _hell,_ has he tried, but reality refuses to bend to his wishes.

Oswald knows this love is unrequited and useless and wasted, a puncture wound in his heart that has not stopped seeping blood since the moment he fell, and yet, still it persists. This love takes and takes, saps him of strength and weakens him so utterly, just like Ed had warned it would. 

Thankfully Oswald is used to overcoming that which cripples. 

“We have been through all of this before. I’ve tried to kill you. You’ve tried to kill me. But here we are, in this room, together…”

The gun lowers, Ed’s finger not even on the trigger and Oswald exhales heavily.

“It means fate has different plans for us.”

A few moments slink by as Ed searches Oswald’s face, dark eyes alight and lingering. And then, at last, the penny drops.

“What plans?”

Thus begins the most unexpected co-habitation of the Penguin and the Riddler.

_Good morning, sleepy-head._

The first morning Oswald wakes in his, no, _their_ base and comes downstairs to find Ed surrounded by blueprints and pencil shavings, he thinks he is dreaming. 

“Good morning, Oswald.”

Ed doesn’t look at him as he speaks, eyes firmly fixed on whatever he is reading. Even so, the familiarity of it is stunningly surreal.

Ed’s voice is like gravel, throat rough and unused after a night of sleep. _I’m the first person he’s seen today._ The thought goes straight to Oswald’s stomach as those long dormant butterflies make their inevitable re-appearance.

“Good morning, Ed. I hope you slept well.”

Ed huffs and he almost sounds amused. “Better than a night in a dumpster.”

Oswald is amazed to find he is smiling. The muscle movement feels alien, his lips curling so gently and softly as old warmth dusts his cheeks with pink.

The déjà vu is so sudden and overwhelming he has to retreat to the kitchen to stop his traitorous mouth from making any foolish comments which would give the game away before they’ve even begun.

_We really have been through all of this before..._

All too quickly, they begin to slip into old habits without realising it. Oswald brings Ed his coffee without prompting, made exactly how he likes it. Ed begins rattling off morning briefings over breakfast, Oswald nodding along still half-asleep.

Oswald forces Ed to get a sorely needed haircut. 

Ed makes a point to judge the success of the colour coordination of Oswald's suits.

Oswald reminds Ed that despite his best attempts he still requires sleep to function.

Ed chastises Oswald for his vanity and ensures he wears the leg brace on colder days.

They both seem to remember in increments, slowly edging back into patterns of long ago, like ghosts retracing the steps of a past life. 

Oswald tries very hard not to see it as a second chance. 

Of course, it wouldn’t be Gotham if their delicate domesticity wasn’t occasionally punctuated by the downright bizarre. A few times an experiment goes awry and one of the last working fire extinguishers in the city is brought into action. Once, Oswald thinks Edward (the dog, on this occasion) has escaped and almost goes into cardiac arrest. The stupid animal is eventually found hiding underneath a mountain of discarded blueprints. 

However, the most memorable interruption is their run in with a demonic doll and the Penguin’s resurrected right-hand man. 

Murderous puppets seem to be coming up a lot.

It is a day of seesawing between intense emotions, disbelief and death threats, words sharper than any dagger and declarations of almost everything. Ed describes their bond as friendship for the first time in years and Oswald cannot help it, cannot stop himself, the words spilling out as his heart overflows. 

_Perhaps, Edward, we really are meant for each other._

It skims so close to the truth that Oswald feels his fingertips burn. Still, Ed’s breathless laughter and the taste of iron on his lips makes the confession seem permissible, if only for this moment. 

He tells himself that he can love without longing, cherish with coveting, adore without cutting open his chest in the vain hope that Ed might pity him and stitch him back together. That he can love and not lose everything.

Three weeks later Oswald realises he is in too deep. 

It is evening. They are celebrating a crucial break through on the sonar: the two of them share a scavenged bottle of wine and recline against the plush sofas, jackets strewn over chairs and shoes kicked off. 

Oswald makes a joke about 'Mr Scarface' and Ed tilts back his head and laughs, the sound lazy and rich and warm. Oswald's eyes catch on the movement, lingering on Ed's long neck, exposed in the firelight and he realises in a startling instant - they are both completely relaxed. Totally at ease with each other. These days he barely remembers the knife hidden in his leg brace, let alone has he once come close to considering using it. 

The sands of time shift beneath his feet and he feels as if they are back years ago, lounging about in the evenings in front of the fire, reading through papers together in companionable silence. 

_I hope you know, Oswald, I would do anything for you…_

In a jolt of self-awareness, Oswald shakes himself free. _No._ He _refuses_ to do this, to fall into the trap of romanticising what has been and gone. What they have now is different. Similar, true, but by no means the same. 

Back then, there had been an obvious power imbalance. Ed had been his employee, Oswald his mentor. Their friendship was fresh and tentative, Ed so painstakingly trying to impress him at every turn, Oswald so caught in the fluster of new love he could barely look at him on his worst days. It had been genuine and warm, but on reflection, painfully naïve. Both had placed the other on a pedestal impossible to live up to, and consequently their relationship had been brittle, prone to break and snap as soon as the illusion was shattered. 

Maybe if Oswald had acted differently, if he had learned what sacrifice meant sooner, it could have matured and become something else, something _more-_

But no. No point in dwelling on what could have been. Oswald blinks back to himself and watches with fresh eyes as Ed lazily traces the curve of his glass rim with a finger, red wine staining his lips.

This, what they have now, is new and wonderful and, if Oswald is being honest, downright miraculous. They are equals. Friends. _Partners._ Just what Ed had once duplicitously asked for. 

Two men who have seen the worst of the other, have _done_ the worst to the other and decided that a life together is better than death apart. 

Oswald cherishes every second of the joy which blossoms in his chest at the thought of it, yet he is practiced enough by this point not to allow it to become more. He has lost the right to look at Ed that way, to dare to want him, even if some nights he feels that traitorous pull, low in his gut, every instinct singing to reach out, to touch, to _taste-_

He tries not to think of the expiration date on this whole arrangement. 

Weeks tumble into months and, before he knows it, their first aborted escape attempt has sent them hurrying to the clinic to retrieve a pressure-regulator-thing from Barbara who is _pregnant_ and being helped by Lee, Jim’s _wife-_

Sometimes even Oswald has difficulty believing the ridiculous situations they find themselves in.

Learning that Ed had seemingly risked their lives to save Lee Thompkins is-

Well.

Oswald breathes through the pain in his abdomen and wonders how many times he can learn the same lesson.

_Honestly, Oswald, you deserve this. You are opportunistic, your loyalty is shaky at best and you will hurt anyone, anyone to get what you want._

They scramble back to the docks, plans secure and energised from their latest near brush with death. And yet, as the jubilation fades and adrenaline runs dry, Oswald feels strangely cold. Unsettled.

He tells himself it is just last-minute nerves but all through the evening he finds his mind distracted, sleeping in fits and starts. Everything feels wrong, crowded, claustrophobic and his dreams that night are full of prison bars and bullet shells.

_Oswald, we have been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge on you. But you come against Lee and you come against me._

He wakes, dread thick in his stomach. 

Perhaps seeing Ed and Lee together in a room has acted as the shock of ice-cold reality he has needed. For all their talk of friendship and acceptance, Ed will never come anywhere near to returning Oswald’s depth of feeling. There will always be someone he wants more, someone better, someone worth betraying him for.

Delusions of a future together, working side by side on the mainland are as vacuous now as they were before the bridges blew. Barely a few hours ago they had seemed so real but now, they vanish like mist, breath on a mirror.

Ed is only here, with him, because he has no other choice. Oswald may very well step out from the submarine only to fall on foreign ground with a knife in his back and a riddle in his ears. He cannot help but remember their pact forged in a cage, an alliance born of necessity with the end clear in sight.

_We help each other escape, together, so that we may be free to murder each other outside. Deal._

Oswald takes one final morning to prepare, allows his aides to perfect his make-up, chooses the sharpest and cruellest of his knives. He dresses not for an escape but for battle and tries not to shudder when Fish’s last words echo in his mind.

_Listen to me. Make this city yours or you burn it to the ground._

Finally, standing next to the submarine, Oswald feels nostalgia smother him as he looks out over the waves.

How much sweat and blood has he spilled on this cement? How much has he sacrificed in safeguarding this beautiful, awful city from the storm he had seen all those years ago? How is it that a mere collection of buildings can feel like a living, breathing thing, a symbiotic part of him?

His home. His legacy. 

Oswald swallows down bile, sick to his stomach with the realisation that he cannot go through with it. He cannot abandon Gotham, not for all the gold and jewels in the world. Not even for Edward Nygma.

_Damnit._

Saying goodbye to Ed hurts like hell. Yet, even so, he appreciates the irony - Oswald being the one to walk away from him on this dock, of all places.

_I've done everything in Gotham. Some things I've done twice._

It is mildly surprising that Ed tries to stop him, but still, he refuses to let himself be swayed.

“Very well. I’m going to follow my heart.”

“Oswald!” 

His eyes pinch shut, desperately fighting the urge to throw everything away and follow this man to the end of the world.

“You have been down this road before. Following your heart has never worked out for you.”

Oswald stands there, mute in shock, utter disbelief that Ed dares- that Ed has the _gall_ to say that to him, to insinuate that _here,_ ten paces from where he had tried to-

Indignant fury surges through his veins and before he knows it Oswald is pushing up into Ed’s space, eyes burning.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you could learn something if you listened to _this,_ instead of _this_.”

As ever, Ed remains immovable, back ramrod straight and Oswald could hit him. Still, he refuses to change his mind, to let himself be tempted back to a man and a future which can only promise oblivion.

_I’m going to miss you, Edward._

He viciously wipes away the tears and, for the first time in his life, leaves Ed behind him.

Or at least, he would have. But as ever, Ed refuses to let him have the last word.

“It takes two men to pilot that submarine, Oswald. Dog can’t do it.”

It stings a little, having held onto the foolish hope that Ed had returned because he’d wanted to, because Oswald had finally gotten through to him - _not_ because he had been robbed of the choice. Yet, even so, with Ed standing in Jim’s office, like a phantom created from Oswald's mind, he struggles to feel anything other than ecstatic. 

It’s almost funny how quickly that changes.

The world is awash with gunfire, the scent of metal and gasoline thick in each breath Oswald frantically draws, putrid smoke filling his lungs. Hunkering down against the blockade, he takes a moment to look around them. Bodies litter the ground, blood oozing out onto this concrete pyre and the rattle of his machine-gun reverberates in his _teeth._

The clink of metal and a blur of movement is all the warning he gets.

_"Ed!"_

With visions of Ed lying still before him, pulse silent and skin cold, Oswald hurls himself forward before he even registers what is happening.

_Following your heart has never worked out for you._

The world around him goes supernova, light brilliant and blinding as fire licks up his face, skin tearing apart as shrapnel buries itself into his flesh.

He cannot stop the howl of agony tearing free, convulsing on the ground as pain excruciatingly hot and searing overtakes him completely. He clutches at his eye as if he could claw the fire away with his fingernails. 

Oswald had thought nothing could compare to the torture Fish had inflicted on his leg. Looks like he'd been a fool, yet again. 

Distantly he feels shaking hands on his shoulder, someone forcing him up and pushing him forwards. The world is blood-soaked and dust-ridden around him. Concrete is painted scarlet and the air hums with the cacophony of bullets, yet still somehow the voice of Jim Gordon carries over the firefight. _Retreat! Pull back!_

Before Oswald fully realises what is happening, he is inside somewhere, struggling down steps as each movement sends a flare of fire shooting up his face.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, his leg reminds him that it too took a beating and he finds he cannot stand anymore.

Collapsing, he takes a moment to tear himself a makeshift bandage from his shirt and press it against his eye. _Fuck, it hurts._ Stars explode in his vision and he screws his eyes shut, breathing through the waves of dizziness.

_Why is it always the right side of my body, hmm? First the leg, then the shoulder, now the eye. Can't anyone bloody aim somewhere else?_

"Oswald," a voice comes low and insistent in his left ear, so sudden it makes him flinch, "we can't stay here. I'm sorry but we need to move."

With a hand on his arm, Oswald struggles upwards. Blinking open his one good eye, his vision clears to reveal the face of Edward Nygma. Oh. 

Of course. The man he'd crippled himself to save. 

Wincing, he peers up at Ed and immediately knows something is wrong.

"Oswald, I'm so _sorry."_

Ed is white as a sheet, breath coming quick, hands hovering anxiously between them. And there is something in his face and voice which seems years younger, as if he should be calling him Mr Penguin. 

"I saw the grenade and I froze." Ed swallows painfully, eyes wide and in any other situation Oswald would adore this uncharacteristic tenderness; however, just at this moment, it feels like his face is on fire and he may have just lost his right eye forever, so his patience is ever so slightly limited. "I'm sorry, I should have-" 

Oswald cuts him off abruptly, body tight with pain. Without warning, the memory of Isabella on a morgue slab flickers behind his eyelids, the left half of her body wrecked and ruined like she’d been cut down the centre. _Penance finally paid._

"It was the least I could do." 

Something flashes in Ed’s eyes as he swallows again, mercurial and dark, and there is something, some shifting emotion written all over Ed's face, this look that seems strikingly new and strangely familiar...

Oswald blinks and pain lances through his flesh, a new wave of agony. He clenches his jaw tight. _Whatever it is, it can wait._

"Is it bad?" 

Ed's burning eyes flicker over the injury as the blood-soaked cloth is peeled away. "No, it's fine-" 

Ed retches, quickly looking away as he somehow goes even paler. Oswald hurriedly replaces the bandage - they can't both be out of action right now - and resists the urge to roll his eyes and exacerbate the pain.

_I'd never known you to be squeamish, Ed._

It is only as they escape the immediacy of the battle ground, scurrying through the back alleys of the Green Zone that Oswald realises-

Ed had been the GCPD's forensics officer. Oswald has watched him torture countless people, shoot men at point blank range, examine disfigured corpses with glee. 

Edward Nygma has never once been squeamish in his life. And yet, seeing Oswald's eye turned to pulp and gore, he flinches. 

Oswald decides not to think about the implications of that. Just to preserve his sanity. 

"Can you believe they were prepared to leave you?" Ed seethes as he walks through the quiet streets, silent and dark with the oppression of war. 

"Yes.” Oswald thinks of Jim Gordon and sighs. “I can completely believe it." 

"You could have died from that grenade. We still don’t know if it’s infected-”

“What a comforting thought.”

“-And it could so easily have been _them_ hit by it.” Each syllable is punctuated with harsh consonants, nostrils flared. "You selflessly came back to protect this city and how do they repay you?" 

"I know, Ed-" 

"It's disgusting. They’re disgusting." Ed charges on forward at a punishing pace and Oswald struggles to keep level. "Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock, leaving us behind. _Unbelievable."_

"It is a miracle we evaded the army." Oswald tries to inject a little humour into his voice in a desperate attempt to soothe Ed’s unexpected outburst. After all, who knows what hellish creatures might still be hiding in these streets. 

Oswald opens his mouth, ready to make another blasé comment on their fateful escape when suddenly the ground _shakes._

"Oh my…" 

They both stumble to a halt and watch as Wayne Tower, the stalwart symbol of hope and order, soaring above the city, _explodes_ before their eyes. Bright and brilliant against the skyline, rubble and fire and ash.

The stunned silence stretches out between them as the magnitude of what has happened slowly settles. Only when Oswald feels the weight of Ed’s hand on his arm does he realise he too has reached out, instinctively steadying himself on the man beside him. Their eyes meet in the dark.

"Shall we get back to the GCPD?" 

A sharp nod is the only response Oswald receives. It may be a trick of the light, but he thinks that Ed walks closer to him now, both of them watching the rooftops. 

They end up back at the precinct and discover, to Oswald’s immense horror, that it was their side that brought down Wayne Tower. He really shouldn’t be surprised at anything that happens in this damnable city but even so-

“This is insane.” Oswald rests heavily against a desk in the GCPD, gulping down painkillers dry as Ed hovers at his side. He intends to savour these few snatched moments before the chaos continues. “Bruce Wayne blowing up his parent’s legacy.”

Oswald has dealt with that boy- well, no, after this hellish year Bruce Wayne has earned his adulthood- but never had he thought he could do something like this. There’s something about him, something bruised and hardened but still so full of hope it almost makes Oswald want to turn back the clock and try this all again. 

He chuckles, the sound brittle even to his ears. “The kid has gusto, I’ll give him that.”

“Hmm?”

Oswald looks at Ed, face pinched and eyes resting somewhere beyond Oswald’s right ear. _Distracted? Of course._

“Fine, ignore me.” Oswald huffs out a breath as he swivels to follow Ed’s line of sight, bracing himself for the inevitable and… surprisingly, he does not see Lee.

Instead, Ed’s eyes are pinned to the large reception desk at the other end of the precinct, expression distant. 

“Do you remember when we first met?”

Oswald blinks, startled. He wets his lips, mouth suddenly unbearably dry. “Vaguely, yes.”

“I asked you a riddle,” Ed murmurs, voice distant. 

Oswald feels his lips twist into something half-amused, half-pained. “I still don’t like them.”

“You were right.” Ed’s jaw works, gloved fingers curling tight. “Back then I was a nervous, jittery loser. Nothing of note.”

Oswald shudders, as if a sea breeze has just brushed past the nape of his neck. “Well, so was I, at the start of all this. Look how far we’ve come.”

Ed opens his mouth, lips about to form words when-

“Alright people, move your asses!”

Ed’s teeth click together. Oswald tries not to feel like he has missed something very important. 

“That means you too, Cobblepot, Nygma!”

Oswald grimaces as movement sends flames up his face and leg, but thankfully the painkillers seem to be kicking in. Soon enough a new wave of adrenaline is enough to carry him through as Oswald finds himself staring down a black ops-grade squadron with a bunch of unarmed Gotham civilians the only thing between them and annihilation.

By some miracle, they don’t die. 

In the sudden rush of relief and exhaustion, Oswald laughs. His eyes meet Ed's in the firelight as the citizens of Gotham cheer around them. He feels a hand on his shoulder, warm through the battered fabric. 

"That's our cue for a timely exit, don't you think?" 

A fleck of ash is smudged against Ed's cheek. Oswald has just enough self-restraint to resist tracing it with his thumb. 

"After you, Riddler." 

They walk Gotham's battered and bloodied streets, shouts of victory growing dim behind them as shadows smother the little light there is left.

Oswald swears he can hear the distant chatter of bats.

Naturally, victory in Gotham can never be without a cost. Any warm-hearted, gooey feelings of solidarity and compassion quickly evaporate as soon as they discover that Nyssa Al Ghul, the utter _bitch,_ made off with not only their submarine and treasure, but also Oswald’s beloved dog. He hopes Edward _mauled_ her. 

He hasn’t been this livid in months, utterly furious that after everything, after he has given so much to save this city he has once again been left with-

“Nothing. I feel absolutely _nothing_ for those drab, boring people...”

Oswald watches with blinkered vision as the Riddler takes centre stage once more, so lost in his own reflection that Oswald needn’t be in the room. Ed’s voice pitches lower with each word, the sound so low it scrapes against Oswald’s eardrums and sets his nerves on end.

“That was me once. Minimum wage at a thankless job at the GCPD. Shy, awkward, pathetic, Ed.” The Riddler turns to the mirror whiplash quick, old darkness filling his eyes like smoke. “Common criminals. Never again.”

 _So that was the cause for your nostalgia._ Oswald wants to hit himself. Of course Ed hadn’t been reminiscing about their relationship, looking back on where they had started out of a sense of friendship - as ever the man was focused entirely on himself. Typical.

“I’ve shown this city who I am before and I will do it again.” 

Despite being a few feet from the fire, Oswald feels his skin go cold as he remembers exactly what had preceded the Riddler’s first emergence. 

The weight of the knife against his leg feels suddenly far heavier. 

“They will bow to the Riddler and they won’t get up until I permit them to.”

Oswald finds himself standing, limbs seeming to react, rebel against the words that could so easily throw him in with all the others, mark him once again as Ed’s enemy.

“Yes, you’re right. Our accomplishments erased, our brilliant minds underrated.” Pain pulses behind his skull and he feels bitterness grip him like a poison. “If they had let me run this city the way I wanted to it would not be in ruins now. I had the men, the money, the guns-"

“Gordon took them. Why? Because he still sees you as Fish Mooney’s umbrella boy and he always will.”

 _Yes._ Oswald feels bitterness boil over into rage, as a wave of dizziness washes over him.

“I only came back to help him save this city so I could take it for myself.”

Oswald vision blurs for a moment before crystallizing, Ed’s stony expression all he can see as the shadows of the room seem to grow darker.

_It takes two men to pilot that submarine. Dog can’t do it._

For all Ed might claim to have had a master-plan or some burning need for revenge, Oswald is painfully aware that Ed had only stayed because he’d been forced to. He hadn’t chosen vengeance or the city or, heaven forbid, _him._ He hadn’t chosen at all. 

Still, Oswald finds himself desperately clutching at the dream of a future where Ed still could.

“We would be stronger together,” Oswald breathes, allowing himself for one brief second to hope, chest aching with the thought of it, the two of them, united, “No one could stop us.”

Ed’s eyes flicker as he smooths a hand over his suit. “Yeah, perhaps.”

Ed smiles to himself and Oswald feels all hope _extinguish_ , like all the lights of Gotham have just been plunged into darkness as the bridges crumble once again.

_For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness. We are better off unencumbered._

There is only one way this can end. Oswald has known it since their victory over Bane, hell, probably since the hospital with Barbara and Lee. These last few months have been nothing but the fumes of a fantasy long dead. He should know this by now - the Penguin and the Riddler can only ever be the other’s annihilation.

Oswald swallows, resignation thick and sluggish in his veins like venom.

_Sometimes, if you’re not very careful, friendship can blind you to what is staring you straight in the face._

“Let’s make a pact, here and now.” Ed’s eyes flick to his, cold and assessing. “We will take what we want from who we want and we will suffer no fools.”

The knife is heavy in his hand, heavier than it has ever felt and the right side of his face _burns._

“Together.” Something in Oswald’s chest splinters under that word but still, he refuses to flinch, refuses to falter. “Shall we shake on that?”

“Please, we’re brothers.” Oswald has to hold back the bile as he says it - to liken their relationship to _brotherhood_ is so ridiculous and sits so acidic and vile in his mouth that all the saccharine sweetness in the world couldn’t make it easier to say. 

But, he thinks viciously, it’s the most Ed could ever think of them as. _Brothers._

“A hug.”

There is a slight smile playing on Ed’s lips, expression too knowing, all too aware that their destinies are to be decided on who can dare to strike first. Mutually assured destruction. _So be it._

“A hug it is.”

_Betrayal. It’s how every friendship ends. So what good are friends anyway?_

Oswald limps forward, heart thumping wildly in his chest as he grips the knife tight to avoid dropping it. He would be a fool not to notice how Ed also steps forward with careful calculation, one arm coming around to encircle Oswald like a snake.

He raises the curved blade, muscles coiled, ready to strike. This has to be quick, this is to protect himself, kill before he can be killed, he just-

_I hope you know, Oswald… I would do anything for you._

Oswald’s breath catches as the warmth from Ed’s body finally hits him and oh, no, not again, please, _please-_

He hasn’t been in Ed’s arms in years, _years_ bereft from this feeling of utter security, of rightness, of home, even knowing there is a knife at his back.

He is so tired. Everything hurts, his right knee burns, he has lost his eye, and Edward Nygma is _holding_ him. He has been cold, frozen so long and now he can do nothing else but melt.

Oswald feels tears in his eyes and fuck it, he cannot bring himself to care about the noise which leaves his throat, such a desperate sound of _need_ and he feels every muscle in his body finally relax, half collapsing into the embrace he hasn’t dared to dream of. 

_I can’t be bought but I can be stolen with a glance. I’m worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?_

Oswald allows himself, finally to accept defeat. Eyes fluttering shut he buries his head in the crook of Ed’s neck and inhales deeply, letting Ed utterly overwhelm his senses as he did once, long ago.

He thinks he can die happy here. Gotham is safe, his mother is avenged, and the love of his life will rule this city in his stead. He finds himself smiling. 

_I hope I’ve made you proud, mother._

Oswald pulls Ed closer to him, heart aching as he waits for the pain to hit, for the blade to strike, for his flesh to tear and rip and sunder.

He waits.

And waits.

Ed's breath is warm and sharp against his neck, goose pimples erupting beneath each shaky exhale. He feels Ed’s fist tighten against his jacket, clutching Oswald to him even closer and Oswald fancies he is close enough that he can hear Ed’s shuddering heartbeat against his own. 

The knife never comes.

_Life gives you one love, Oswald. When you find it…_

Oswald pulls back while he is still able to, before the wetness in his eyes becomes full blown tears, before he pushes his luck when he has been gifted this precious second chance.

Blade quickly schooled away, Oswald looks up at this impossible, inscrutable man before him and marvels at the fact that they are both still alive, that somehow, they have survived everything, survived each other.

_Here we are in this room, together. It means fate has different plans for us._

The fire reflected in Ed’s glasses doesn’t come near to the heat Oswald feels once again, the warmth which starts in his belly and spreads its greedy fingers outwards, filling up every last inch of him, soothing his aching muscles and stilling his anxious heart. 

“Life begins anew.”

Edward smiles, one of those rare, genuine smiles that softens his face and Oswald for once allows himself to acknowledge, to imagine, to thrill with just how utterly _right_ it would be to meet those lips with his own.

“Shall we get to work?”

For the first time all evening Ed’s voice sounds warm, syllables no longer clipped by that hideous gravel of rage and anger. 

Oswald nods, his smile small but genuine. 

_Together._

At last, a new chapter. A fresh start, a chance to finally begin their friendship anew. It is more than he had ever thought possible.

In this moment, Oswald promises himself that there will be no more false hope, no more wasted dreams, no more mourning what he never had - it is, at long last, time to put the past behind him and embrace what the future promises. The Penguin and the Riddler, allies, their enemies at their feet and a city to conquer.

“My dear Ed, I thought you’d never ask.”

Outside, a new dawn paints Gotham’s streets with gold.


	8. Umbrella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - This chapter contains a very brief conversation about an abusive relationship between two of the Gotham rogues (two guesses as to which ones -_-) 
> 
> As suggested, it is very brief and, while it is very rightly condemned, in this fic it is referenced through the comic-book lens of Gotham and its characters, so it definitely doesn't represent the full discussion needed when talking about real, abusive relationships. While it's a very quick, second-hand reference that's in keeping with other Batman material I wanted to flag it up anyway, just in case. Look after yourselves!

“With reunification underway and the bridges being rebuilt, it is my honour to bestow upon Captain James Gordon the title of commissioner.”

The Town Hall is filled with light as Jim Gordon stands before the applause and flashing cameras, managing to look only mildly uncomfortable in the face of such unadulterated praise. Oswald claps politely, a rueful smile playing upon his lips. Jim meets his gaze for a second, seemingly accidentally and Oswald winks with his one good eye.

Jim doesn’t look at him again for the entire ceremony.

During his time as Mayor, Oswald had positively _loathed_ the inevitable conclusion of every state event - _mingling._ Today is no different, although the attendance of little, mewling Barbara Lee does give the affair a little levity. The wonderful brat had started screaming halfway through Jim’s acceptance speech and, as Barbara refused to take her out, the niceties were blissfully cut short. 

The kid is definitely growing on him.

However, for all the unusual features of this ceremony, there is still something distinctly off. Oswald watches from the corner of the room, blinkered vision flicking over the crowd of expensive suits and dresses as something like bile rises in his throat.

Nearly all of these people had escaped Gotham that fateful night the bridges blew. They’d flown off in private jets or dozed in chauffeured cars, escorted to their beach house or Metropolis apartment, wringing their hands over how Gotham’s predicament might affect their shares and annual sales. 

And yet, here they are, drinking champagne in a room that has been frantically scrubbed for blood and bullets for the last forty-eight hours. Their polished shoes squeak against tiles where barely weeks ago men had died screaming.

 _Sycophants._

Standing alone, Oswald feels strangely grubby in comparison with them. Dirty. As if this last year has stained him on some molecular level and, if he were to brush up against one of these city officials or CEOs, his fingertips would leave behind a smear of ash. It is a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

However, as the afternoon draws on, something even worse makes itself known.

Oswald is used to feeling the oddity, has grown practically bored of the lingering glances people in any room eventually give his limp. However, his ruined eye seems to draw an entirely different type of attention. 

Everyone in this damn room, each of these disgusting businessmen and city officials look at his eye not with curiosity or fear, but _pity._

Each furtive glance turns his stomach and Oswald vows that these half-blacked out glasses will go at the first opportunity. After five years spent perfecting his image, one stupid injury will _not_ ruin it.

With every passing second, Oswald’s thoughts only grow fouler, his muscles seizing as he leans against the wall, huddled like an outsider when a few years ago he had _owned_ this town, a few weeks ago he had ruled from this very building and he can’t stand it, can’t bear this cheap sympathy that chafes against him with every breath-

Oswald’s spiralling thoughts lurch to a stop as a figure emerges from the crowd, a shock of green in a sea of monochrome. Relief sweeps through him.

_Right on time, my old friend._

Edward Nygma spares him no long, lingering looks of piecemeal pity. Instead, he greets him with a perfunctory nod, offering a champagne flute in a gloved hand and, honestly, Oswald could kiss him-

Ah. Well, good to know things are getting back to normal at least.

“They trawled the bottom of the river, trying to salvage what’s left of the submarine. Of course, the treasure inside.”

“Good.” Oswald cannot help but smile as he limps forward, desperate to get out that damned corner. “We’ll need that money if we’re going to buy up judges, councilmen, city officials. With Gordon as commissioner we can’t be too careful.”

The champagne is bright on his tongue, an echo of a past life, and he feels some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Don’t dwell on the past. The future is his for the taking. _Life begins anew._

“Typical. Jimbo isn’t even mingling at his own party.” 

Oswald follows Ed’s scathing gaze up to the balcony where Gordon and Bullock are perched, overlooking the room. 

“To be honest, it’s a minor miracle he’s still here.” Oswald turns back to look at Ed, lips curling and chest light. “I’ll admit, it’s a little gratifying to see him so uncomfortable about the whole ceremony. Especially as _we_ aren’t getting any praise for saving the city.”

Ed’s eyes are bright and vicious. “Once we recover the submarine, we’ll make sure to keep the new commissioner busy.”

_Bitter to the end. How very appropriate._

“I look forward to it. And, as much as it is an annoyance, I am glad Nyssa al Ghul suffered a fitting demise.” Oswald feels a pang of grief shoot through him. “Especially for what she did to Edward.”

He thinks he catches Ed rolling his eyes at that, but he decides to let it go. Another swig of the champagne brings even more release when- 

_That couldn’t be right..._

“Oswald? What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, frown settling on his forehead. “Nothing, Ed. It’s… no, just a foolish thought.”

He feels a hand on the crook of his elbow and glances up to see Ed’s concerned face, eyes dark. “Oswald, I trust your instincts. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Oswald blinks, a little startled by Ed’s sudden shift.

“It’s nothing, just- you said that it took more than one person to pilot the submarine, didn’t you?”

Ed’s face goes strangely blank, blinking twice in quick succession. The hand at his elbow falls away. “Yes, I did say that.”

Oswald purses his lips. “Well, in that case, she must have had an accomplice. It’s just odd that they only found her body-”

“Obliterated by the explosion, no doubt.” Ed takes a sharp gulp of champagne, finishing it in one. “I don’t know about you, Oswald, but I think I’ve had enough of celebrating Gordon’s achievements for one day.”

Oswald casts a mildly suspicious look over Ed’s carefully neutral expression, the whiplash of the exchange jarring in him… 

He sighs. The pain medication dosage is still high enough that fatigue sets in after only a few hours of activity and already he can feel the creeping ache beginning in his knee. Perhaps retiring for the day isn’t such a bad idea, Ed’s sudden mood swing aside.

“No rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

Something in Ed’s physicality seems to relax, uncoil, and that Cheshire grin stretches once again. “My sentiments exactly. About time we went home.”

Ed passes their glasses to a waiter and turns to leave, purposefully striding into the crowd. Oswald watches him for a second, chest suddenly heavy with an emotion he can name all too well. 

_Don’t hope for a second that he came back for you._

Oswald exhales slowly and limps forward.

The next six months feel so expansive and endless after the hellish pace of No Man’s Land, the air lighter and breathable once again. Oswald struggles to trust it. He is constantly tense, muscles coiled, waiting for things to blow up again, literally or figuratively, for another disaster to hit, for Ed to go back on their agreement and leave him, again. 

Muscle memory sets in and he braces for the impact of hitting water so cold it may as well be concrete, but-

But nothing. To Oswald’s immense surprise, Gotham heals, rebuilds, restores. 

Most incredible of all, Ed stays.

Ed _stays_ and Oswald allows himself to feel hopeful for the first time in years. 

They cobble together their forces, painstakingly plan their strategy, work with the GCPD when it suits them and, slowly, the pieces begin to fall into place. Oswald reclaims the Van Dahl mansion and sets plans in motion for a new club. Ed is just as busy, establishing hidden boltholes across the city, ready for the Riddler’s grand encore. 

They work and sweat and, inch by inch, Gotham emerges from the rubble, brilliantly, victoriously alive. 

Every now and then, in quiet, snatched moments, he catches Ed staring at his eye, the ruined skin slowly starting to heal. Ed stares but he never says anything, never speaks about that final day, of the pier, the grenade, the bladed embrace, their promise.

 _Life begins anew._

Ed doesn’t say anything, so neither does Oswald. He tells himself that, perhaps, it is better to leave the past behind them. Move forward, focus on the work. 

In hindsight, Oswald should have expected something to go wrong. 

It would seem that their utter two-faced _bitch_ of a commissioner had merely been biding his time for the past six months, just waiting for an opportunity to unleash his dogs and spit in the face of the last five years. 

Despite their history, despite _everything,_ Jim Gordon has no qualms about arresting them, dredging up ancient charges spun by the newly appointed DA, Harvey Dent, and Oswald is furious, absolutely _enraged_ because it isn’t _fair._

Why does Jim get ten years with his wife, his daughter, with the city he loves while Oswald gets iron bars, a cold cell and intermittent letters from a man imprisoned in an insane asylum? 

Ten years. A _decade_ lost. So much wasted, empty time, a period that lasts longer than Oswald spent establishing (and re-establishing, many times over) his rule in Gotham. Eventually, after months of blistering fury, the rage recedes to a simmer and bitterness begins to burrow deep, cursing Jim for cheating him of so much.

The letters from Ed, however scattered the man’s thoughts may be, are the only thing that keeps him sane. The irony is not lost on him.

Yet, Oswald knows that he has survived far worse than _time._ There is still work to be done and a promise to fulfil.

_Make this city yours or burn it to the ground._

Finally, _finally_ Oswald Cobblepot re-enters Gotham, a free man. However, he doesn’t feel truly free until he stands on the pier, _this_ pier that has spelled death for him so many times, gun in hand and Jim Gordon before him in the dark.

_We both know that this has been a long time coming. Our story is over, old friend._

The fact that Jim Gordon escapes his immediate revenge is… unfortunate, but, no matter. Oswald rages and swears and curses before he comes back to himself, cool night air a balm to his inflamed skin. 

Jim had been right. Bringing him back to the pier had been _sentimental_ at best, compulsive at worst. Like a shock of cold water, he remembers how he had once criticised Ed for exactly the same error, breath turning to vapour in the rain.

Oswald exhales, heavily. He can allow himself a single misstep after ten years in Blackgate. And Jim had at least given him some rather delicious information.

Perhaps, there are things more precious than revenge.

Collected by a driver, Oswald watches the dark city streets from the car window. Gotham has not changed, nor have the rules of the game. If nothing else, this past decade has taught Oswald patience. His lips curl into a smile.

_Everything comes to him who waits._

The car rolls to a stop and the door opens. All thoughts of Jim evaporate, mist on the sea at dawn as the moment that has kept him fighting for the last ten years at long last arrives.

“Edward Nygma. It is very good to see you.”

Ed looks incredible. There are the creases of crow’s feet at his eyes and the lines on his face pull tighter than the one in his memory, yet Oswald still feels his heart stutter at the sight of him. 

_“Oswald.”_

He is all dazzling green, eyes shining beneath his new tinted spectacles, question marks littering every inch of his body. He looks beautiful. So, utterly beautiful Oswald has to blink away stars.

“I thought you weren’t behind this.”

Ed’s voice is gruff, lower than he’d expected, no doubt from years of lack of use. It sends a line of heat down Oswald’s spine, nonetheless.

“I’m not, but I thought you might need some help - and what else are friends for?”

Ed laughs and just like that, the last ten years were worth it. 

_Damn, it is good to see him._

Then, of course, the Batman happens.

Being interrupted in an emotional moment by Gotham’s resident rodent vigilante becomes a surprisingly regular occurrence in this new life. Similarly, being trussed up in embarrassing scenarios only to be found by Fox, Gordon or Pennyworth also becomes frustratingly commonplace. 

_I did not spend ten years in Blackgate to give my city to a man dressed like a bat._

They escape, of course. Re-group (not retreat, _regroup_ ) to a safe-house and quickly set their minds to the task of reclaiming their city. They spend hours pouring over new city maps, adjusting to the way Gotham’s streets have shifted since they last walked them, marking out new territory, scratching out lists of contacts and cash. 

After the flurry of strategizing, Oswald finally makes use of the fully stocked kitchen and prepares a meal that he supposes counts as breakfast, dawn light peeking through the windows.

Their fingers brush as he passes Ed a glass of orange juice.

“Here, drink. I assume Arkham’s culinary quality hasn’t improved much in the last decade.”

Ed looks up at him, hair a mess, glasses askew and Oswald almost smiles as he feels that old, deep ache, chest constricting and contracting in its long-remembered routine.

After so long it is almost a relief to know he still loves as desperately as he ever did.

“Thank you, Oswald, for all of this,” Ed says, hesitant and half-bashful, “for everything.”

Oswald shrugs, heart suddenly fluttering. “Not at all. After all, it wouldn’t feel like Gotham if I didn’t have to save you from one madman or another.”

For a moment he wonders if the flippancy of that comment was a step too far but, to his immense delight, Ed just throws back his head and laughs, the sound almost guttural. 

“Oh, Oswald,” Ed says, smile too wide, flashing too many teeth, “I have _missed_ you.”

Ed’s eyes glint with something feral and Oswald has a snatched second to feel panic, before he is being wrenched forward into a bone-crushing hug. It has been so long, so many years of biting violence or the empty, cold weight of his cell, his body almost goes into shock at the sudden, overwhelming embrace.

For a few, frantic heartbeats, Oswald can only stand there, rigged and terrified. And then, just as he feels Ed about to pull away, something fierce and vicious, almost animalistic kicks in, his touch-starved skin screams for more, more, _more_ and he clutches Ed back, claws his nails into those shoulder blades, buries his head into Ed’s neck and _breathes._

The scent of Ed is like a shot of adrenaline, straight to his nervous system and all at once the man’s heat overwhelms him, slices through his veins to every last inch of him until Oswald’s head swims with it. 

“I missed you too,” he whispers against Ed’s skin, watery and overwhelmed and _home._

Ed somehow clutches him closer and, for the first time in a decade, Oswald feels like he can breathe. 

_Life begins anew. Properly, this time._

A new era begins. This time, Oswald is determined that the Penguin’s ascension to King of Gotham will not be one so easily usurped.

For all those fruitless years in Blackgate, Oswald never truly lost his grip on the gangs of Gotham. He has informants and safe houses across the city, weapons and money stashed, ready and waiting. 

Within the space of a merciless two months, Oswald eliminates any other significant opposition to his rule, and, on the legal side of things, can finally re-open the Iceberg Lounge in a bigger, even better located building than before. He feels practically giddy at the idea of it.

“That name? Still?”

Oswald glances up from the kitchen to find Ed examining the club’s design documents on the coffee table. _Ah. Of course._ Oswald meets his questioning gaze with an apologetic grimace. 

“My apologies, Ed, I know the Iceberg Lounge has some...distasteful memories attached. However, I’ve been told that people today expect ‘brand consistency’ and the papers have already latched onto the name.”

Ed casts a suspicious glance over the files. “And the centrepiece attraction...?” 

Oswald sighs, collecting the two glasses of merlot and moves to join Ed on the sofa. He should have expected a little resistance on this, he supposes. Sometimes, he forgets how fresh decade old wounds can be.

“Here, look.” Oswald deposits the wine glasses on the table and begins thumbing through the blueprints, finally landing on the large spread of the main bar area. “The architect has designed an elevated ice-sculpture garden as the centre-piece attraction. And… _here,_ see, the preliminary artwork looks rather lovely.”

Ed’s eyes and fingers flash across the blueprints, seemingly trying to tease out any secrets, parse any concealed mystery. After a long few moments, Oswald presses a gentle hand to his shoulder, drawing Ed’s gaze up to meet his own.

“The only thing extraordinary about these sculptures will be their impeccable craftsmanship. I promise you.”

There is a moment of tension, Ed’s dark eyes burrowing into his for an impossibly long beat… and then he grins, muscle beneath Oswald’s palm going lax.

“An ice sculpture garden… It looks good, Oswald. Although, I have heard your previous instalment was rather attractive.”

Oswald breathes a quick, intense sigh of relief as the momentary crisis seems to have been averted. 

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” he murmurs, watching as Ed returns his sharp gaze to the blueprints.

“It’s certainly a bigger venue this time around, I can see why you opted for a garden rather than a single piece.” Ed’s eyes dart up to his, suddenly glittering. “Perhaps one day, you could make space for a penguin enclosure. You know, for ‘brand consistently’.”

Oswald hums thoughtfully, reaching for his neglected merlot. It sounds ridiculous, and yet…

“Oh, Oswald, don’t tell me you’re actually considering it.”

He chuckles and stretches out a little on the sofa, rolling his neck side to side as he works out a cramp. “If the city can accept a man dressed like a bat, I think the bourgeoisie coul get over a penguin filled nightclub.”

A smile quirks at Ed’s lips as he takes the second wine glass, moving to match Oswald’s more relaxed posture. “As long as you don’t name any of them after me.”

Oswald laughs, marvelling again at how easily the sound is pulled from him, after all those years of seething silence.

“No promises.”

Ed suppresses a smirk as he opens another folder, this time interior design. Every movement dripping with ease and confidence, he pulls out prints, colour wheels, fabric swatches, cycling through sea green to ice blue to deep mauve.

“I was thinking navy blue for club’s main colour,” Oswald offers, sipping his drink, “you know, tie into the whole ‘sea’, ‘ice’ theming.”

Ed doesn’t respond. Instead, his fingers hover, considering before he finally selects - deep violet, amethyst, indigo. 

“Purple suits you best.” Ed smooths the fabric out, long fingers tracing the pattern before placing it in Oswald’s hands. “The colour scheme should match the proprietor. Purple brings out your eyes.”

“Of- of course.” Oswald swallows, stomach suddenly swooping with the momentary closeness, the awful intimacy that almost pulls him forward…

Ed smiles, eyes dark and he chinks his glass against Oswald’s.

“Just as long as it’s not green, you have my blessing.”

Oswald wrenches himself back with a laugh that feels too high, too breathy. 

“Of course not.” He exhales through his nose and watches Ed take a long, slow drink of wine, lips stained red. “As ever, I would be lost without you.”

_Please don’t leave me again._

Oswald had known since the first night of his release that living together could only ever be a temporary arrangement. Still, when Ed gathers enough resources and personnel to establish his own power base, his absence still hurts like a blade in his gut. 

One morning he awakes to an empty apartment and tries not to feel like a complete fool.

_Ed isn’t yours, you stupid, sentimental man. He has never been yours so you cannot grieve him._

Oswald pulls himself together and gets on with planning the Iceberg Lounge’s grand opening. 

So what if Ed doesn’t come? The man is an escaped Arkham inmate – the opening of Gotham’s newest nightclub would be far too public an occasion. In all honestly, he’s probably doing Oswald a favour by staying away, keeping the Penguin’s reputation as clean as possible.

Still, Oswald watches for that flash of green all night. 

_This is Vicki Vale, reporting for the Gotham Gazette. Police have confirmed reports that the newly opened Martha Wayne Opera House has been locked down as a hostage situation is in progress..._

Exactly one week after the Iceberg Lounge opens, the Riddler makes his grand re-entrance onto the Gotham stage. The evening is planned to perfection and Ed’s showman smile burns across every frontpage, headline and newsreel. 

Even Oswald has to concede - the Riddler is utterly mesmerising. 

“My first riddle, to you Gotham.” A dramatic flair, hand curled above his head, elated grin brighter than the sun. “The poor have me, the rich need me and if you eat me, you’ll die. So, tell me - _what am I?”_

Exactly forty minutes after the GCPD storms the opera house, concluding affairs at a thirteen strong body count, Oswald’s phone goes off.

“Did you see?”

Ed sounds breathless and wild and _jubilant_ and instantly, something knotted in Oswald’s stomach unwinds for the first time since he switched on the news to see Ed’s face emblazoned on every channel. 

“Of course I did, Ed. You were all over the news.”

“And?” His voice is pitched low, hungry, practically raw with energy. “What did you think?” 

Oswald swallows and searches blindly for the right words. “You were...magnificent. Just magnificent - everything I ever thought you could be.”

There is a beat of silence and Oswald has a second to feel nervous, desperately hoping he hasn’t just overstepped.

“Use my name.”

Oswald’s stomach swoops, a flare of warmth prickling up the back of his neck, hot and uncomfortable. _Not this again._

“Ed-”

“Use my name, Oswald. Please.”

Oswald licks his lips, heart kicking against his ribcage.

“You were utterly magnificent,” he breathes, _“Riddler.”_

There is a noise, staticy and short in Oswald’s ear, almost like a sharp inhalation of breath.

_“Thank you.”_

The line clicks dead and Oswald places his phone down slowly, heart still beating too fast. Slowly, he gets up and pours himself a drink, pausing to look out of the mansion’s window at the spring forest. 

Finally, the tension releases and he huffs out a bemused breath.

It would seem he’d been a tad premature, thinking that Ed leaving had been the end. Oh no. 

This was only the beginning.

Contact between the two of them does not peter out, as Oswald had feared it would. Texting becomes the most convenient form of communication between the two, but they do occasionally call, keeping each other up to date on their progress, warning each other of prospective turn coats and tip offs. Hell, sometimes for old time’s sake, they send each other coded letters like they had in prison. Oswald knows it will make Ed smile and Ed knows it will cause Oswald unending frustration until he solves it.

Somehow, it works.

Eight months into this new Gotham and Oswald thinks he has remembered how to live without Ed beside him. Life has reached a new normal and, while he has long since given up on ‘moving on’ from Ed, he is at least free of that old oppressive longing. It is...surprisingly okay.

Then he hears Edward is in custody.

After a whirl of panic, adrenaline and a viciously quick deployment of his best enforcers, Oswald is once more in the GCPD, smile wide and breezy as he meets Commissioner Gordon’s eyes.

“Jim, my old friend. So _good_ to see you.”

The GPCD is full of new recruits who don’t remember the days before the bridges blew. All they know of the Penguin is his eccentric fashion taste and whispered stories of potential connections to the mob. He gets a few stares and smothered giggles but for the most part his arrival is unremarkable. 

_Perfect._

“Penguin.” The years have not been kind to Jim Gordon. The lines around his eyes are deep-set and the fact that he has hit the crisis point of his life is boldly advertised by his constantly fluctuating belief that he can pull off a moustache. “You’re here for him, I assume?”

Jim inclines his head towards the holding cell where, yes, Ed stands in a worryingly muted green suit, hair hanging down limply, not quite covering a bruise on his left cheek. 

His eyes are electric as they meet Oswald’s.

“You read my mind, Jim,” Oswald says brightly. His skin feels hot from where Ed’s gaze rests, like the dot of a sniper rifle, unmoving.

Jim sighs and the weight of a decade sags across his shoulders. “He’s an escaped criminal from Arkham. Not even you could get him out of this one.”

Oswald steps forward, sliding into Jim’s space like a knife through flesh and he bares his teeth. _“Watch me.”_

It takes approximately one hour of bartering, threatening and coaxing, but Oswald makes good on his promise as, finally, Jim relents. It is the most savagely alive Oswald has felt in months.

“You’re absolutely sure about Sionis?”

Oswald gulps down the Captain’s cheap whiskey from the office supplies, lounging back in an old, rickety chair that really needs replacing. From behind the office desk, Jim looks like he is developing a stress headache.

“Absolutely positive. Let Ed go and I’ll give you the address. Just think, you’ll clear out Black Mask’s weapon cache _and_ prevent a gang war, all in one day.”

Jim massages his temples and Oswald takes a moment to watch him carefully. They have both changed so much since their first meeting, yet while Oswald wears his scars on the outside, Jim’s are viciously internal. 

James Gordon is no longer that green, idealistic boy that refused to shoot him under Falcone’s orders. Gotham’s commissioner has learned to weigh the odds, to sacrifice a pawn for the sake of the queen, to work with a vigilante that undermines the law and everything he maintains he believes in. 

_See what Gotham has made of both us, old friend._

“Hundreds will die if you don’t stop this, Jim.” Oswald leans forward in his chair, voice coaxing. “Of that I am deadly certain.”

“That may be true, Oswald, but I can’t just let the _Riddler_ waltz out of the GCPD.” Jim’s eyes flick up to his, sparking with that old righteous indignation. “Any faith the people have in us will be gone-”

“Jim, you’re being out-classed by a man dressed as a _bat.”_ Oswald brings down the glass with a satisfying thunk. “Public confidence in cops can’t get much lower right now.” 

Jim runs a weary hand across his face, gaze slinking to the desk. “I still can’t let him walk out.”

Oswald barely resists rolling his eyes. “ _Obviously._ Let him escape instead. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it looks convincing.”

Jim reaches for his own glass of whiskey and slugs it back, muttering under his breath.

“Do we have a deal, Jim?” Oswald asks, standing as impatience begins to eat away at him.

There is a beat of silence, Jim’s jaw tight before he folds.

“Fine, _fine.”_

Oswald smiles capriciously. “Knew I could count on your pragmatism to win out, old friend.” 

Even as the words leave his lips he feels something sour. _This from a man that has no friends…_

Oswald leans forward, hands resting on the table and savagely enjoys the way Jim’s whole body goes tense, hand going still, as if ready to reach for his gun at the slightest provocation.

“Just remember, _Jim_ , I swear on my mother’s grave - force my hand, betray me again and I will sic every last lawyer in the city on this precinct, _personally_ ensuring that every criminal brought in by the Bat is legally untouchable.”

Jim watches him, eyes dark and jaw set. “Received and understood, Penguin.”

_Revenge in increments is always so much sweeter._

Oswald smiles, lips thin. “Wonderful. The address of Sionis’ warehouse will be posted here after I know that Ed is safe.”

He turns to leave, smugness settling in-

“Why?” 

He stops short at the door, skin suddenly cold. 

“Why go to all this trouble? For _him?”_ Jim looks at him, lines at his forehead deep and creased. “What does he have on you? What do you owe him?”

Oswald cannot stop the laughter that curls out of him, the sound too grating and bitter in the small room. 

“You really don’t understand friendship, do you, Jim?” He casts a sharp look at the commissioner, chest suddenly tight. “Or maybe, you never understood me.”

He leaves, leg aching and some nasty, ancient emotion coiled tight in his stomach. He doesn’t look at Ed as he leaves.

_Following your heart has never worked out for you._

Four hours later, Oswald is comfortably seated in his beautiful club, sipping on his third glass for the afternoon when the doors open. He takes the deepest breath he has all day.

“You didn’t need to step in, Oswald.” 

Ed is storming closer, consonants clipped and angry. Oswald sighs. _Typical._

“Please, Ed, you’re making me blush, no need to be so grateful.” 

Ed stops a few feet from him, eyes burning. “I mean it, Oswald. I had a plan-”

“No, you didn’t,” Oswald says, rising to meet Ed straight on, “you were turned in by that awful ‘henchwoman’ you’ve been running around with, Query or whatever her name was. Your detention was most certainly _not_ a planned move. If it had, you would have at least dressed for the occasion.”

Ed’s jaw works, hands clenching at his side. Oswald finds his gaze drawn to the bruise on Ed’s cheek, hurriedly shaking off the urge to trace it with his thumb. 

“Query was admittedly a mistake-”

“You don’t say.” _Always the women._

“But I would have escaped.”

Oswald raises an exasperated eyebrow. “Maybe eventually, after another ten years in Arkham. But I was hardly about to take that risk.”

Ed fumbles readjusting his glasses, hands half shaking and Oswald blinks, reassessing. He’d been mistaken before. The fire in Ed’s eyes isn’t outright fury, it is something else, something-

“You didn’t need to be _kind,_ Oswald.”

Something in Ed’s voice, his expression – he seems less angry and more embarrassed, almost plaintive, desperate. It reminds Oswald of something, some conversation had years ago, buried beneath the fodder of empty years, just on the tip of his tongue…

“Why are you always so _kind-”_

“Ed, enough.” Gently, Oswald reaches out to place a hand on Ed’s arm, feeling a sharp jolt that goes through the man as he does. “I was hardly going to let you go back to Arkham when you’d only just escaped. And I wasn’t being kind, I was being a frie-”

His words and thoughts are smothered as Ed suddenly yanks him forward, off centre, careening into his chest as those long arms snap up to encircle him, holding him so tight it is almost painful. Oswald blinks, exhaling in surprise as he realises - Ed is _hugging_ him.

“You shouldn’t have had to do anything, Oswald. It was my mistake.”

Oswald swallows, slowly reaching around to return the embrace as best he can. Warmth floods him utterly and completely and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“It was nothing, Ed, really.”

The arms around him somehow crush him even closer and Oswald inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed.

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise,” Ed murmurs, low and breathy and so _close._ Those lips graze his hairline and Oswald has to fight off a painful curl of hot, desperate want in his gut.

“Just- just don’t get ratted out by another of your girlfriends and we’ll call it even.”

Abruptly, Ed pulls away, that strange, shivering look in his eyes replaced by something far darker, brimming with possibilities. Oswald’s stomach lurches.

“We both know I can do better than that,” Ed murmurs, gaze flicking across Oswald’s face as if searching for something. “And besides, she wasn’t my girlfriend.”

With that, Ed draws back, and, in a whirl of tailcoats, he turns to leave, walking determinedly out of the Lounge without a second look. Oswald watches him, skin prickling with a sudden chill.

_What the hell does that mean?_

The weeks go by in complete silence and Oswald concludes that Ed’s interpretation of ‘make it up to you’ will only result in a ridiculously oversized diamond left on his desk in the near-to-distant future. Not that he'd complain, of course. He didn’t rescue Ed with any ulterior motive, it’s just- 

Edward Nygma is incredibly practiced at giving him hope when there is none.

However, one month later, Ed comes good on his promise.

It is five in the afternoon. The unusually clear autumn sky allows the rare glimpse of a beautiful sunset and Gotham is set alight with gold. A knock at his office door is all the warning Oswald gets.

“Come in.”

The door opens to reveal Ed, leaning against the doorframe, head ducked beneath a glittering bowler hat. He is adorned in a new, forest-green suit that ripples in the stray beams of light, sporting a grin as electric as the newly furnished Wayne Tower. 

Dark eyes flash up at him beneath thick lashes. 

“What bird is always with you for dinner?”

Oswald just gapes, incapable of doing anything but floundering. The sight of Ed looking so _good_ is still occasionally enough to short-circuit his brain. “Uh, I don’t-”

“A swallow,” Ed answers, words dripping with luxurious confidence as he examines his gloved fingers, “although for once, the riddle wasn’t really the point. Obviously the right answer in this situation should be a penguin-”

“Ed,” Oswald cuts him off a tad sharply, still reeling from his sudden appearance looking like _this,_ “what on earth are you talking about?”

“Right.” Ed blinks up at him and straightens, grin once more wide and brilliant. “We have a dinner reservation at Paccini’s for two in… just under thirty minutes. So, we should probably head out now to avoid traffic.”

Oswald feels as if he has just plummeted off a thirty-story building, stomach swooping up to meet his suddenly frantic heart.

“Paccini’s? But- but they have a six-month waiting list.”

Ed’s eyes glint darkly and Oswald feels himself flush hot down his neck. “You’re not the only one with favours in the city, Oswald.”

His mouth flaps, open and closed, uselessly. “You- you did that for me? For dinner?”

“Anything for an old friend.” Ed has the audacity to wink and Oswald genuinely wonders if Ed is trying to kill him. 

This is too dangerous, too close to something Oswald has not dared to dream about in well over a decade. He should say no, come up with an excuse, anything, rearrange for a future date- damn it, not _date_ , not that like that- prepare himself for whatever the hell this is-

_Following your heart has never worked out for you._

“Of course, Ed. Just- uh, just let me get my umbrella.”

The meal is delicious, shared in a hidden booth which affords as much privacy as one could wish. Their conversation is, as ever, a much needed breath of fresh air. They stay firmly in the realm of good-natured quips - joking about Selina Kyle’s latest heist, giggling over the recent cock-up Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock have been caught up in, discussing Oswald’s plans to draw up a new drinks’ menu. Not once do they dare to reminisce or venture into emotional territory.

Still, it is… nice. 

Ever the pragmatist, Oswald half-expects the meal to be some sort of trap, some ruse for one of the Riddler’s elaborate schemes. However, for once, it appears his fears were ill-founded. 

Before he knows it, they are standing outside the restaurant’s side entrance, waiting for Oswald’s private limousine to arrive, breath turning to mist in the cold air. Caught in the streetlight, Ed’s eyelashes flutter, casting long shadows over his cheeks, ethereal.

“We should do this again.”

Blood warmed by the wine, the words spill from Oswald’s lips all too eagerly. Ed looks over to him, a flicker of surprise on his face and instantly, Oswald regrets saying anything.

“Only if- if you wanted to, of course,” Oswald hastens to add, a squirm of embarrassment sending warmth prickling along his neck. 

Ed watches him for a few suspended seconds, eyes assessing. And then, he smiles.

“I would love to.”

That night, Oswald dreams of honey and firelight for the first time in _years._

_I hope you know, Oswald, I would do anything for you. You can always count on me._

That should have been warning enough, but Oswald still lets himself get caught in a fluster of half-hearted hope. 

Yet, as he should have expected, the weeks tick by and Ed doesn’t text, doesn’t call, doesn’t emerge in a dazzling shower of glitter and gunpowder, ready to whisk Oswald away to another Michelin star restaurant. 

There is just silence. Again.

The disappointment stings, but Oswald doesn’t get caught up on it. Ed is notoriously fickle and his attention wanders from project to project with startling speed. It’s why the Bat has such difficulty predicting his next move, one of many reasons the GCPD has no chance of catching him.

Still, Oswald muses, this is hardly the first time Ed has missed a dinner appointment. At least this one had far less riding on it.

_We really have been through all of this before._

Exactly one month to the day of that meal at Paccini’s, Oswald finds himself sitting at the Lounge’s bar on one of the club’s quieter nights, sipping away on his cocktail, mind blissfully free of Edward Nygma when he feels a figure slide easily onto the stool next to him.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

Oswald forces himself not to start, not to jump, not to move an _inch,_ as if suddenly in the presence of a wild animal that could tear him open with one swipe of its claws. _Damn this man._

“We have a reservation?” Oswald asks as nonchalantly as he is able, sipping his drink.

“10 o’clock, Sashimi, Diamond District. Just opened.”

The stool squeaks as Ed’s leg presses against Oswald’s, knee to thigh in a long, unbroken line. 

Oswald traces the curve of the glass with his forefinger, deliberately not meeting those dark, dangerous eyes. “What if I’m not free?”

“Of course you are, Oswald.” He feels a hand on his shoulder and breath against his ear, so _close._ “I checked your schedule” 

And then he is gone. Oswald waits for a minute, fights to control his breathing, slow his old, erratic heart. Eventually, he allows his lips to curl upwards.

Dinner becomes a thing.

It becomes _their_ thing. 

As Oswald is the one with the fixed schedule and place of residence, it is almost always Ed who approaches him, a different restaurant planned for each flip of the calendar. 

On one occasion, he enters his office to find Ed lounging in his chair, examining the chess board he keeps for show, half a game already played. On the desk is a reservation card for Chez Vous.

The next month, Oswald feels a hand on his arm at a charity function and turns to meet the laughing eyes of the Riddler, disguised in a hideous wig and make-up, finger flashing with the fruits of his latest heist. They retreat, giggling like children and make their way to the closest steakhouse.

On one memorable occasion, Ed goes as far as to get into Oswald’s limousine at a red light. Thankfully, there is no repeat of this particular instigation, as Oswald throws a fit to rival the days of his youth and nearly stabs the driver. 

Still, only two hours later they are gloriously wine-drunk and cannot stop laughing about it.

No matter where Ed finds him, Oswald cannot stop the treacherous thump of his heart, cannot avert the way his whole gravity seems to shift, pulling him ever towards this man like a meteor on a collision course. Oswald is not embarrassed to admit that these dinners are almost always the highlight of each month, even if his heart still finds energy to bleed after all these years.

Before he knows it, almost three years have passed since they both found their freedom. Near thirteen since reunification. It feels like a lifetime. 

Still yet to have their monthly meal together, Oswald secretly hopes they will get to celebrate the anniversary together.

_Don’t you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?_

It is late evening and the Iceberg Lounge is in full swing. He is in a particularly good mood – a gang dispute has just ended favourably, and he is still smiling from the furious text Ed had sent after seeing Jervis out in a bowler cap rather than the Mad Hatter’s traditional top hat. 

Threatening to sue another rogue over a wardrobe violation is so _Ed_ it hurts.

So, when none other than Barbara Kean and Lee Thompkins approach his perch at the bar, Oswald finds it in him to indulge the two in a little small talk.

“Hey, Ozzie.”

Both women look objectively stunning, as if the last decade had never passed. Barbara shines in a sequined black pantsuit, offsetting the red in her hair beautifully. In turn, Lee wears a graceful, ankle length dress of gold, plunging neckline adorned with a glittering necklace. Each of them looks fiercely alive, vital and breath-taking. 

Oswald is always appreciative of a carefully crafted outfit and, he has to hand it to them, Barbara and Lee certainly outstrip any other patrons. 

"Good evening, Miss Kean, Mrs Gordon." 

"It's still Thompkins, as you well know by now, Mr Cobblepot," Lee corrects, smile light and teasing.

“Of course.” Oswald winks at her. “How is family life treating you both? I assume this is a, uh, 'girls night out'.”

Barbara and Lee look at each other, for a brief second caught in a stray light and Oswald marvels at the genuine affection between them. He will never quite understand how their odd threesome works, but he knows both he and the city are infinitely grateful that it does.

"We've been meaning to have a night just the two of us for months, haven't we, Lee?" 

Lee smiles as Barbara slings an arm around her shoulder. "It's been a while since we've had a bit of space." 

Oswald puts a hand to his chest, eyes widening in faux sincerity. "Well, I am _honoured_ that you chose my meagre establishment to enjoy your night off." 

"Oh, stop it, Ozzie, you know as well as we do that the Iceberg Lounge is the best night out in Gotham." 

"Not to mention the safest," Lee murmurs, as she collects a cocktail and a hefty glass of white wine from the bar. 

"At the Lounge, we pride ourselves on our near non-existent accident rate. And, I suppose, as we’re all old friends," Oswald gives the barman a quick look, "drinks are on the house for the rest of the night for these lovely ladies." 

Barbara grins something feral as Lee raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, surprise parting her lips. "Thank you, Mr Cobblepot. That's very- very generous." 

Oswald shoos away any gratitude with a wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. You two deserve a good time for putting up with- well, you know who." 

Barbara sniggers. "I'll drink to that." 

With a clink of their glasses, both women take a substantial swig of their chosen drinks and Oswald barely holds back a chuckle. _Tut tut, Jim. Been ignoring the wonderful women in your life? Shame on you._

"How's the little Gordon doing?" Oswald asks, leaning a little more heavily against the bar as his right knee twinges.

"She's well, thank you," Lee replies, voice immediately softer, "just discovered a passion for computer science which has her tinkering with odd bits and pieces from who knows where. Her room is a _mess."_

"Ah, let's not forget her gymnastics," Barbara tsks, “little Barbara Lee won her school tournament two weeks ago. Best under fourteens, floor _and_ vault." 

"Well, she certainly doesn't get her talent from her father's side." Oswald grins conspiratorially, raising his glass in a mock-toast.

Lee almost laughs. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

"Speaking of our fearless commissioner, Jim's been kept rather busy with some gang activity on the waterfront." Barbara sips on her cocktail, eyes glittering. "Wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Ozzie? 

Oswald's lips stretch into a slow, easy smile. “It’s the first I’m hearing of it. Sounds like a nasty business...”

Barbara rolls her eyes, propping herself up on the bar with one elbow. “Come on, Ozzie, for old time’s sake. Promise I won’t snitch.”

Oswald raises an amused eyebrow, lips quirking up. "Dear me, Miss Kean, what would a nightclub owner possibly know about gang business?”

Barbara pulls back, sulky pout firmly in place. “Spoilsport.”

He grins, enjoying a slow slip from his drink. “My dear Barbara, may I remind you that you aren't the only one of us old rogues to go straight." 

As he speaks, both Lee and Barbara's eyes flicker behind him, expressions shifting ever so slightly. Barbara lets out a quiet snort. 

"Some of us less straight than others," she mutters into her drink. 

Oswald frowns, turning to see who-

"Oswald." 

Of course. Who else would it be?

Ed stands barely a few feet from them, dressed in his full Riddler regalia. The glasses and cane are missing but the latest ostentatious coat is firmly in place, sequins dazzling in the undulating club lights. 

"Ed!" Oswald tries not to cringe at how earnest he sounds, how genuine his smile has suddenly become. "What an unexpected surprise."

Ed's eyes flit away from Oswald to meet the women behind him. "Barbara." An infinitesimal pause. "Lee." 

Immediately, Oswald feels any good mood he'd been in sour. _Of course._

"Ed,” Lee says, voice unaffected, if a smidge cooler, “it's good to see you." 

“I’m liking the new outfit, Eddie.” Barbara’s eyes lick up and down Ed and, for a moment, Oswald feels the most ridiculous urge to stand in front of him, blocking Ed from her needling gaze. “I’m glad you kept the shoes - they really bring the outfit together.”

“You look lovely, as well, Barbara,” Ed answers, tone slightly sharp. 

Barbara grins, teeth very white. “I’m aware.”

Ed’s cordial smile slips a little. “I’m sorry to interrupt you all, but I was hoping to speak with our host for a moment-”

"Actually, as you’re here, do you mind if I have a word, Ed?” All three of them turn to Lee, equally startled by her request. She shows no sign of buckling under the weight of three pairs of inquisitive eyes. “Alone?" 

Ed's expression wavers with surprise before he smooths it over, nodding. "If you’d like..."

Oswald watches with sinking dread as the two of them sashay through the crowd towards the booths at the back, an area designed to give privacy otherwise impossible in the Lounge. He shivers as the ghost of something long dead caresses the back of his neck. 

_We have been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge on you. But you come against Lee and you come against me._

Oswald looks back to see that Barbara has finished her drink and is ordering another. With a sigh he slides himself onto a bar stool next to her. 

"He come around here often?" 

Oswald blinks, looking down at his nearly empty glass. "Occasionally. Just to check in." 

Barbara hums as she takes her new drink, fiddling with the umbrella. 

Oswald finds he cannot help his eyes being drawn back to the booths, desperately trying to catch their outlines, green and gold, leaning close together, necessary to hear each other over the music. Anxiety buzzes beneath his skin, stupidly, pointlessly _annoyed_ by this turn of events-

"Oh Ozzie." Oswald whips his head to his left to find Barbara looking at him, eyes wide. "Still? After all this time?”

A terror he has not felt in years slices through him and he feels more exposed than he has for over a decade. 

"Don't say things like that," he hisses venomously, anxiously checking that they aren't being listened in on as paranoia grips him, "not ever, not _here."_

Barbara scoffs. "Please. All the old players already know - stop spluttering, of _course_ they know - but they also know better than to exploit it as a weakness. And as for the new kids, well, you've both sold your indifferent-rival act rather well. You’re safe." 

“That still doesn’t give you the right,” Oswald bites out, terrified and _seething_ at the weakness of it, the _obviousness_ of it, heart bloody and bruised for all the world to see. 

_You know what a man loves and you know what can kill him._

An uncomfortable silence blankets them as they sit, side by side, music echoing to match the sudden frantic pounding of his heart. The moments trudge by and his humiliation only sinks deeper, festering like an untreated wound.

“I didn’t believe it was real, you know.” Barbara’s voice is quiet, yet it still sounds too loud, too sudden. “Back when we had you at the Sirens, I didn’t think you really meant it.”

“Barbara-”

“I was so convinced he was right, that you would rat him out, just as soon as he’d betrayed you,” Barbara barrels on, utterly oblivious to Oswald’s half-warning, half-pleading, “but you didn’t.”

_So you’d rather die than give up the man who tried to kill you?_

Oswald drops his head, pinches his eyes shut against the memories of that awful night. “Please, Barbara-”

“I would’ve killed for someone to love me like that.” 

He blinks open his eyes to find Barbara watching him, expression full of something so visceral that it could never masquerade as pity. 

Oswald swallows, throat burning. “I- I know it’s crazy, I know I should be able to let go but-” He breaks off, hands clenching on the counter-top, chest full of poison and bitterness and grief, so much _grief-_ “I can’t. I know, it’s stupid and it’s almost killed me, and I should be able to- but I can’t, I just can’t-”

Shame floods him as he feels decades of unshed tears beginning to prick against his eyelids, hot and mortifying. 

_For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness._

“Ozzie, listen to me,” Barbara says insistently, leaning forward as an elegant hand comes to grip his, “it’s taken me a long time to realise this, but love is _not_ a weakness.”

Oswald scoffs but Barbara is determined, only gripping his hand tighter. “No, I mean it. I am happy with my life on the straight and narrow but if anyone threatened my daughter again, don’t think for a _second_ that I wouldn’t _destroy_ them.”

He blinks open watery eyes to find Barbara looking fiercer than he has ever seen her.

“Edward Nygma is the world’s biggest idiot if he can’t see this, can’t see _you_ after all these years, but even if he never does, don’t ever entertain the thought that this has weakened you.” Barbara’s eyes narrow, steel flashing beneath blue. “I don’t pity you, Oswald. I always thought you were strong - I didn’t realise how strong until now.”

Oswald blinks in shock, the words settling into the black space in his chest, swallowing down shaky breaths. 

“I- I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

Barbara smiles, red lipstick like blood against her white teeth. “Just being honest, Ozzie. Now, as drinks are on the house, I think it’s about time you got a refill.”

The quiet lulls between them, sounds of the club, laughter and music, gratefully filling the space as they just sit. Two giants of Gotham, content to share a drink together in silence. 

_You know, they say you can judge a man by his friends._

As the distress and vulnerability fades, Oswald feels a small smile pull at his lips.

_Looks like I have more friends than you thought, Jim._

A cough from behind them prompts each to turn around, a little startled. There stand Lee Thompkins and Edward Nygma, both looking strangely reserved. 

“Now that’s done… Shall we dance, Barbara?” Lee deposits her empty drink and holds out of a hand.

Barbara quirks an eyebrow. “About time. Thanks for the drinks, Ozzie.”

Oswald smiles as Barbara takes Lee’s offered hand, already feeling that old sense of control slip back into place. “Thank you for the conversation, Barbara. This new life… it suits you.”

Barbara grins and presses a quick kiss to Lee’s cheek, one arm snaking around her waist. “Couldn’t agree more.”

The two women disappear into the crowd and Oswald takes a fortifying breath. He turns, eyes catching on Ed watching the two of them vanish, a strange, distant look on his face. _Two guesses as to which one has his attention._

“Good chat?” Oswald asks as casually as he can, distantly hoping that his eye make-up isn’t smudged.

Ed just hums, gaze still fixed far away. Oswald lets out a quiet sigh and reaches for his glass.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

Ed frowns at him and Oswald feels a little like screaming. “When you arrived, you wanted to discuss something…”

“Oh, right,” Ed blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose, “it- it can wait till another time.”

Oswald tries not to visibly crumple. “Oh, okay.”

Ed shakes his head, as if attempting to dislodge a bothersome fly, and meets Oswald’s eyes, expression apologetic. “I’m afraid I need to run. Something rather pressing has come up.”

“Of course.” Somehow, Oswald manages to pull together a smile as he claps him on the shoulder. “Well, you know where I am if you need me.”

For a brief moment, Ed’s face softens, and he looks younger somehow, gentler. “Always. I’ll see you soon, Oswald.”

He doesn’t see or hear from Ed for another three months.

Oswald wonders if he has done something wrong, said something he shouldn’t have, crossed an unforeseen line, failed one of the Riddler’s infamous, deadly tests-

Cycles of emotion churn through him each day: frustration at being ignored, fury that all it took for him to cut ties was one brief chat with Lee, worry that Ed is in trouble and can’t get word out for help, bitterness that Ed is _not_ in danger and has just abandoned him, despair that it was always going to end this way, exhaustion at another of the Riddler’s broken promises-

_I’ll see you soon, Oswald._

Three years and three months since he was given his so-called freedom.

Sometimes, Oswald thinks he is just as chained as he ever was.

_Perhaps, Edward, we really are meant for each other._

It is winter and the day is long far dead. The anniversary of his mother’s death has just passed.

For once, Gotham seems still, trapped in a tense quiet as storm clouds gather on the horizon.

It has been a particularly trying evening at the Lounge, courtesy of the latest millionaire brat, Tommy Elliot. Oswald’s knee aches, even with the cane, the skin around his eye feels too tight and he wants nothing more than to lock himself in his office and lose himself to a chardonnay and cigar. 

However, tonight is just one of those nights, because just as he is about to withdraw, he spots Ivy sitting at the bar and, before he can understand why, finds himself walking towards her. _Your penchant for self-destruction is particularly strong tonight, isn’t it, Oswald._

“Good evening, Miss Pepper.”

A flicker of green eyes beneath scarlet locks. 

“Hi, Pengy.”

These days, Ivy Pepper is so different to the young woman she’d once known, the little girl playing dress up with pearls and poison. This Poison Ivy has all of the venom and nothing of the naivety. And yet, despite their disagreements and staggeringly different methods and goals, the two of them still find the time every now and then to exchange a few words.

“I don’t suppose you’d care for some company?”

A pause.

“If you like.”

Permission granted, Oswald carefully slides onto the stool next to her. Casting a quick glance across Ivy, he notes the lines searing a scowl into her expression, perfect posture hunched ever so slightly. 

“She went back to him. Again.”

 _Ah._ Oswald sips his drink, conclusion confirmed. Ivy only usually shows up at the Lounge after Harley relapses - he silently prays that she isn’t in a bar-fight mood.

“You should have seen the number he pulled on her this time,” Ivy spits. Her nails dig grooves into the bar surface and Oswald draws back just a little, self-preservation kicking in, while also running numbers on the cost of a tabletop renovation. 

"And all because she 'ruined the punchline', whatever the hell that means." 

Oswald well remembers the reports of the latest battle between the Clown Prince of Crime and Gotham’s Dark Knight, barely a few weeks ago. While their usual spats are bad enough, this most recent lover’s quarrel had left half a street in flames and two dozen people in the morgue, faces forever twisted in a grotesque rigor mortis of laughter.

Senseless chaos and destruction, so much blood spilled and all to make _him_ notice. 

Oswald tells himself he doesn't understand the Joker's urge to paint his devotion in scarlet across the city. Irrefutable. Undeniable. 

However, sometimes, on nights like tonight, he thinks he understands all too well. 

“He only ever has eyes for the Bat. It’s so obvious but she keeps going back like some sort of kicked puppy.” Ivy’s face contorts all at once, beautiful features curling into a picture of fury and disgust. “Sometimes I can barely stop myself from killing him. One cut and that’d be it. No more Mr J.”

"Don't." Oswald swallows back the sudden bile, gut seizing as he can almost feel the flare of an ancient wound in his abdomen. “Just don’t. Harley- yes, I completely agree, she should leave him, but she has to make that decision on her own. Hurt him, _kill_ him and she’ll never forgive you.” 

Ivy’s eyes are on him in an instant, as sharp and piercing as her nails as they rake across him. Something shifts, suspicion morphing into something altogether softer.

“Pengy-”

He stands abruptly, discomfort squirming beneath his skin under Ivy’s gaze. _Is he really that obvious?_

He can’t do this again, not after Barbara, not after the debilitating silence of the last three months. “Do let me know if there’s any way I can help, Miss Pepper.” 

“Thank you, Oswald, it means a lot.” There is the hint of a smile on her lips, gratitude seemingly genuine. There is a moment of hesitation and Oswald almost manages to make his escape when- 

“You do know… he forgave you a long time ago.”

Oswald looks away sharply, jaw tight. 

_I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her…_

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

He limps away, desperate to snatch a moment of peace to himself. He pauses for a moment on the Lounge’s balcony, looking down at his empire; the shimmering lights glitter against the ice and sequins and the room sparkles, as if filled with diamonds. Hidden in the centre of the crowd, he thinks he spots Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle dancing together.

_Would you be proud of me, Mother?_

In a surge of melancholy he can never quite escape from this time of year, Oswald feels his lips pull into a small, bittersweet smile.

I _know you would be proud. You always were._

He exhales slowly, as if he could somehow physically expel the decade old grief from his body. Yet another wound that will never fully heal, another scar he must limp ever onwards with. Oswald sighs and heads towards his private elevator. 

_The only thing I lack is someone to share it with._

Of course, because fate truly has it out for him tonight, Oswald takes three steps into his office when the shadows shift. 

“Penguin.”

Due to previous dinner invitations, finding Ed in his office is no longer enough to send Oswald into cardiac arrest. However, after three months, Oswald feels his heart jolt, almost painfully so, as if it has just been reminded of its reason for beating. 

“Riddler.” Oswald sighs inwardly. All the anger and frustration of the last few months have drained him, leaving only a weariness deep in his bones, he is so _tired._ “It’s been a while.”

“Apologies. I was out of town on a little business.” 

Oswald finally turns, blinking as he peers into the shadows. Something in his chest curls tight, constricting, clawing around his lungs.

“But you’re back now?”

Ed’s eyes glitter in the dark. “For good.”

That coiled something in Oswald’s chest unwinds, a three-month-old tension easing away, and he can breathe again. 

“Good.”

_I would be lost without you._

“I do hope I’m not intruding,” Ed says with the self-satisfied lilt of someone who is well aware he will never be intruding as long as he lives. 

Oswald has a quip ready, lips beginning to form consonants- but then Ed steps into the light and any words die on his lips.

The Riddler is not wearing one of his objectively garish question mark ridden outfits he is so fond of. No, instead his clothing is uncharacteristically subdued. His suit is something much more evocative of the old days, still green but more muted and, thank the heavens, a single block colour. 

The flamboyance Oswald has come to expect (and, in secret, admire) is still there in subtle touches - the question mark tiepin, the green emerald cufflinks, the purple leather gloves. Still, for Edward, it seems remarkably tame. Even his hair is gelled back, neat, tidy.

Oswald swallows. Three months silence and a wardrobe change? This can’t end well. 

“Not at all, old friend.” Feeling another wave of fatigue rush over him, Oswald hobbles towards his desk and props his umbrella against the drawers, still within reaching distance (it is never wise to be entirely unarmed when alone with the Riddler). “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

"Well, I had a gap in the diary and felt a craving for Chinese."

“First gap in three months?” The words come out a little sharper than intended and Ed’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I told you, I was busy.”

Oswald knows tiredness and petulance go hand in hand for him, but he couldn’t stop the pointed, bitter words if he tried. “And, what, now you’re not?”

Ed looks at him like he’s just suggested that two and two actually make five.

“Obviously.”

 _Oh, screw this._ Oswald sighs, the weight of years pulling him down into his chair a little too heavily as all desire to engage in an argument abruptly leaves him. 

_I do own a phone, Ed. One of these days you’ll learn to call._

"Your presence, Edward, is always a lovely surprise but I'm afraid it's been a rather long day. I was planning to eat in tonight."

The tiniest frown forms on Ed's forehead, the same line which Oswald has long since identified as the 'this isn't going to plan' frown. However, he quickly recovers, enigmatic smile firmly reinstated like it was never gone. _Unflappable bastard._

"That actually aligns with my designs perfectly."

Ed crosses the room with a few strides (those legs are positively _sinful_ ) and leans against the desk, all long lines and sharp angles. It's odd, Oswald thinks, seeing him without a cane or hat in so long. It is… surprisingly intimate. 

"And what exactly are your 'designs' this time?" Oswald leans back and barely catches a yawn. 

A beat of silence is all it takes for Ed’s greedy eyes to scrutinise every inch of him and Oswald cannot help but feel like one of Ed's old specimens, as if the man is seeing every weakness and frailty he tries so hard to mask. 

"That Tommy brat giving you grief again?" 

Oswald quirks an eyebrow, lips pursed. _And how would you know that, Edward?_

Ed just shrugs his shoulders, mouth quirked upwards in amusement. "I've heard whispers of a few of the boy’s recent run ins with the law. Nothing more than drink driving or, ah, indecent exposure."

“Brat is a very kind word for Thomas Elliot.” Oswald does not have to reach far to pour himself the long-awaited glass of whiskey which has kept him going throughout the evening. “He is everything that’s wrong with Gotham’s elite. This new generation of socialites have all the money but none of the class this city used to have.”

“Just look at Bruce Wayne.” Ed helps himself to his own glass without asking and downs it in time with Oswald, their movements synchronizing perfectly. “He showed so much potential during the blockades but the only thing his prolonged gap year seems to have taught him is how to hold his vodka.” 

Oswald snorts. _So much for high society._ “I may just ban Elliot. To hell with lost revenue, it’ll be worth it not to have to clean vomit off the ice sculptures again.”

“I can always target him for my next project if you like,” Ed offers through a grin that’s more teeth than smile, leaning forward over the desk, “I hear the Elliot’s have some gorgeous art pieces.”

Oswald blinks up at Ed who now looms above him, almost blocking out the light overhead. _Now, that is unexpected._

“I appreciate the offer, Edward but… I’d rather not provoke Elliot’s wrath just yet. There’s something beneath his juvenile attitude I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t like it at all.”

Ed shrugs and leans back, taking another gulp of whiskey. Oswald feels himself relax minutely, realising that he’d tensed as Ed had moved forwards. “It’s on the table if you change your mind.”

 _What are you playing at tonight?_ Oswald narrows his eyes and takes in Edward again, more carefully. This time he notes the oh so barely there foundation which covers dark bags under his eyes. Interesting. Late nights are always the sign of a particular passion project, either one which is in the works or one which has just reached completion.

Frowning slightly, Oswald tries to remember if there have been any recent reported high-end thefts in Gotham he might have overlooked and comes up blank. _Alright, enough with the games._

“Ed.” 

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here?”

Something in Ed’s eyes darkens, fingers twitching slightly on the desk. 

“I already told you. Dinner.” Oswald huffs but Ed cuts him off before he can speak. “Yes, I heard you - long day, you’re tired, eating in, that’s fine. I’ll just pick us up a takeaway. Make it easy for you.”

Immediately, alarm bells start going off in Oswald’s head. 

Dining out has always been the routine; yes, they were discreet locations which wouldn’t immediately alert the cops or, hell, Batman, but they have always eaten in the vicinity of others. Yet, what Ed is suggesting tonight…. Both of them out of their formal guises, together, _alone._

Oswald is instantly suspicious. Ed is quite clearly up to something and for his own safety, his own sanity, he should say no, rearrange for another date somewhere public and comfortable and _safe,_ but Ed-

Ed looks at him and every complaint dies in Oswald’s throat. There is a vague nervousness about the man, obvious in the flicker of his eyes and the twitching of his fingers, as if he is trying to resist pushing his glasses back up his nose or wringing his hands. It softens something usually harsh and brittle, makes him look younger somehow.

Ed looks nervous but also...hopeful. 

“Fine, Ed. Just,” Oswald huffs out a breath, steeling himself against the fatigue, “next time, _call me._ Or leave a note, or just- _something._ I can’t always drop everything because it’s convenient for you.”

Ed frowns and, to Oswald’s utter surprise, pouts for a second before he turns and hops off the desk.

“I know, I know.” Ed looks back at him, pout gone like it was never there and replaced with the familiar showman smile. “The Penguin is a ‘very busy man’ with plenty of twenty-something millionaires to intimidate.” 

“Well, for that comment, _Riddler_ , you can foot the bill.”

Ed’s smile curls upwards and the angle it reaches is sharp enough to cut glass. Oswald tries not to stare. 

“Just make sure you’ve got a nice bottle of wine waiting.” Ed turns and begins to make his way toward the door. “So, midnight, your place?”

Oswald’s heartbeat is suddenly very loud in his ears, like rushing waves. “My- my place?”

Ed pauses, fingers hovering above the handle as he glances quizzically back at Oswald. “Your apartment downtown… I’d assumed that would be an easier and safer place to eat than my current residence.”

Oswald cannot help it; blood floods his cheeks as a blush spreads out in patches across his face and neck, a long lost conversation flitting through his mind. 

_There is something I would like to discuss in a more private setting. Shall we say dinner, eight o’clock?_

“Of course. Sorry, it’s just-” _We’ve never done this, not in decades, there’s no script to follow, I don’t know what words might spill out instead-_ “It took me by surprise. Midnight is perfect.”

The lines on Ed’s forehead smooth and he gives a brief, biting smile. “Catch you later.”

Ed vanishes and, after a breath, Oswald reaches for another drink. His fingers are shaking. 

_Ever your greatest weakness._

After making sure the club won’t combust without his oversight, Oswald calls a driver and travels to his apartment. He still vastly prefers staying in the Van Dahl estate, yet unfortunately the odd hours he keeps, running a nightclub, often require him to sleep somewhere more conveniently located. 

The apartment is, of course, pristine having been cleaned earlier that day. Still, Oswald finds himself plumping the cushions and anxiously checking the old grandfather clock as the minutes tick ominously closer to midnight.

Ed arrives just as it starts to rain outside. 

“You must break me before you use me. What am I?”

Ed’s voice is full of static as it bristles through the intercom, yet Oswald almost chokes all the same, words sputtering like a faulty engine. “What-”

“An egg.” Ed’s grin is vicious as he looks up at the CCTV camera. “They didn’t have jasmine scented rice, so I had to settle for egg-fried. Hope you don’t mind.”

Oswald jabs the ‘open’ button on his security layout with a bit more force than necessary. _Damn riddles._

He breathes through his nose slowly, in a desperate attempt to squash his nerves. Tonight is not the night to hear hidden flirtation when there is none. 

With a ding the elevator opens directly onto the penthouse and reveals Ed in his earlier, more subdued outfit, clutching two plastic bags.

“Good evening, Oswald.”

Oswald finds himself smiling, despite his tiredness. “Ed.”

Ed’s eyes are alight as he takes in the open plan floor of the main room, all sleek edges and modern fittings. Muted lights and a very convincing fake fireplace are the only light source in the room, a deliberate choice which draws one’s eyes to the main feature…

“Oh, _Oswald_ ,” Ed breathes. 

Oswald walks in step with Ed across the room, stopping in front of the large floor to ceiling windows which display a view which is second to none. 

Gotham’s lights are bright beneath them, smeared like watercolours in the downpour, ever-blinking beacons in the darkness. All of the city’s ugliness and beauty blurs from up here, the light and the dark embrace like lovers and Gotham _shines._

“I looked at five penthouses before I found this one. I put down the deposit two minutes after walking through the door.”

“It’s stunning.” 

Oswald sneaks a glance to his right and watches the shadowed profile of Ed’s face look out in awestruck delight. The urge to take his hand is almost irresistible.

“At least the Bat is busy tonight.” Oswald nods in the direction of the Bat-signal, burning white against the dark clouds curling overhead. “Saves us any unpleasant surprises.”

“I hope he slips off a roof.” Oswald stifles a laugh as Ed’s lips curl in mirth. 

“Agreed.”

They stand there for a few moments, side by side, looking down upon the city that birthed them. The near constant noise and bustle of Gotham is distant from this height, drained away. A distant chopper rattles faint on the horizon, rain a soothing patter on the roof. For once, Gotham seems at peace.

“If I’d known you were hiding this, I would have visited a long time ago.”

Oswald shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, you never asked.”

Ed’s eyes are finally drawn away from the skyline and he meets Oswald’s gaze in the dark. “My mistake entirely,” he murmurs.

Oswald gets caught in those dangerous depths until his stomach finally reminds him why Ed is actually here. Ed smirks at the loud gurgle. “Hungry?”

“This better be damn good rice.”

They sit at opposite ends of his dining table, parallel to the windows as they unbox and break open chopsticks. Eating a Chinese take-away from the Penguin’s best china seems obscene in some unspeakable way and Oswald relishes it.

The take-out is surprisingly decent, and all thoughts quickly dissolve as his focus narrows solely to eating. Distantly, Oswald makes a note to ask Ed for the name of business.

Conversation flows easily enough until Ed finally gets around to his noodles and becomes quickly enraptured by the task of picking through his onions. Oswald finds himself pausing for a moment, chopsticks poised just above his own plate as a sudden shock of nostalgia rushes over him.

_Do you believe in fate?_

“Oswald?” 

He blinks back to himself to find Ed looking at him curiously, eyes darting between his face and frozen fingers. _What is wrong with you tonight?_

“My apologies,” Oswald murmurs, hoping his smile holds, “I just remembered something.”

Ed’s entire body stills, stiffens. “Sorry, is there something-”

“No,” Oswald says immediately, the word tripping out far too quickly, “uh, no, nothing more important than dinner. It was nothing.”

Ed exhales slowly and begins picking at his food once more. 

“Good. Now, tell me, how is Martin? Still putting his fellow students to shame I hope?”

“He’s well, thank you,” Oswald says around the napkin, dabbing at some stray sauce. He almost misses the quick downward slither of Ed’s eyes, lingering perhaps a moment too long on his lips. Oswald tries not to swallow. _Now is not the time for mind games._

“He’s just received his offer for his Masters at Oxford _and_ a fully funded scholarship. He won’t even need me to pay for his accommodation.”

Ed nods his head, as if he’d expected nothing less. “He has your ambition and adaptability. He’ll be brilliant.” 

“Like father, like son.” Oswald cannot hide the pride in his voice, the smug smile he feels playing on his lips. Gotham has taken much from him, but it was merciful enough to allow him a son. He will always be deeply grateful for that.

“My sentiments exactly.” Ed meets his gaze, a small, quiet smile on his face as well. “If he needs any assistance on his thesis, I’m more than happy to assist.”

“He’ll be touched to hear your offer,” Oswald says through a chuckle, remembering the old science tutoring sessions Ed had once given Martin, _years_ ago now. Goodness, he is getting old. 

“Now, please, enough about me. Tell me about your latest scheme, Riddler. I know you’re dying to.”

Oswald watches Ed with keen interest. Whenever he asks about Ed’s latest pet project there are two directions the conversation can take. The first reaction, and the one which Oswald hopes he will prompt tonight, is that Ed’s eyes will light up, tongue almost tumbling ahead of his mind to explain the brilliance of his recent plot. 

Tonight, Ed’s eyebrow quirks up and he chews slowly on a dumpling.

_Shit. Alright, so mysterious and enigmatic Edward it is._

“Oh, come on, Ed. If it’s been three months in the making it must be something special.”

Ed smirks. “In that case, where would be the fun in telling you everything right now?”

Oswald barely resists rolling his eyes, a habit he’s been trying to get out of lately. Instead he settles for a short, sharp sigh. “Not even giving me a puzzle to let me work it out?”

Ed’s eyes light up and Oswald tries not to grin triumphantly. _Ha, got you. I know you too well._

Ed muses for a few moments before closing his eyes. “I have no beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given. What am I?”

Oswald frowns, jaw working. He gives it ten seconds before he accepts defeat. 

“You don’t often stump me, Riddler,” Oswald says, leaning back as he takes a long drink of his wine, a little disheartened.

Ed’s eyes are dark when he meets them again. 

“I thought I’d lost that ability years ago,” Ed says slowly, voice suddenly low and rough, like sandpaper.

Oswald’s tongue turns to lead, feeling as if he has just missed something rather important. “It would seem not.”

The rest of dinner is blissfully uneventful, wine smoothing over the harsher edges of conversation as Oswald allows himself to relax, permitting the anxiety and anger of the last three months to ebb away in the easy company of his best friend. Still, he cannot quite shake the sense of anticipation.

Bellies full and glasses empty, they eventually relocate to the sofa, the electric fireplace casting a gentle, glowing light over them.

“No further forward on that riddle?”

Ed watches Oswald with a pleased, smug glee on his face, body stretched out in long lines against the leather. Honestly, sometimes Oswald could smack him.

“No, Ed, you know perfectly well I’m not.”

Ed’s teeth are very white in the golden light. “It’s about my latest ‘scheme’, as you put it. Would you like to see?”

_Ah, finally._

"The only thefts in the last few months have been the work of Miss Kyle, as far as I recall..." Oswald begins cautiously, veins already beginning to spark with adrenaline. 

“Ah, but there’s your first error.” Ed's eyes sparkle in the lowlight. "I wasn't in this country." 

Oswald blinks in surprise, the revelation smarting just a little. “You should have told me-”

“And ruin the surprise? Unacceptable.”

He watches as, ever so slowly, Ed reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, small enough to be… no, surely not- 

“A ring,” Oswald breathes, stomach swooping. “Your riddle. No beginning, no end - you meant a ring.”

Ed’s eyes are full of something that Oswald cannot for the life of him name, an emotion deep and shadowed and almost on the tip of his tongue, but then Ed opens the box and Oswald’s thoughts screech to a halt.

There between them sits the most gorgeous amethyst ring, gilded in gold and set in black. Oswald’s fingers itch as a cold dread settles in his stomach.

“This ring was passed down for centuries through an old Gotham family. But, about sixty years ago, it was lost in a gamble gone wrong.” Ed looks down at the ring, almost reverently, voice hushed. “It travelled to Russia where it has sat in an oligarch's mansion for decades... Until now." 

_So that’s where Ed had gone..._ "Well, its owner was foolish to have squandered such a jewel." 

Ed chuckles lightly. "Oswald, the man who lost this ring was Obadiah Van Dahl. Your grandfather." 

Oswald’s ears wash with white noise, heart suddenly in his throat. 

"My- my grandfather?" Oswald blinks rapidly, mind reeling from this information. “How- why would you…” 

“It’s why I went to Russia. I wanted to reclaim it, reinstate it to its rightful owner.” Ed moves closer, and Oswald finds himself frozen, ears thudding with his now pounding heartbeat. “It’s yours, Oswald. Here, let me-”

And before he can think to resist, Ed is gripping his hand, his _left_ hand and is sliding the ring onto his index finger. Oswald swallows, finding himself deeply regretting not wearing gloves. 

“See? Perfect fit.” 

_No beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given. What am I?_

Oswald looks up and Ed is right there, fingers burning against his flesh like ice, eyes darker than he has ever seen them. Dread thickens to terror.

“Oswald, can I ask you something?” Ed murmurs and he is so close that Oswald can feel each soft exhale against his mouth.

“It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask for a very long time…”

Heat and warmth and fire in his glasses and lips so near and a ring on his finger and a murmured question, so close, so near, so close-

 _“No.”_ Oswald launches himself away, up from the sofa, staggering a few steps back as he gulps in shallow, futile breaths. 

"You didn’t even hear the question." Ed is frowning, head cocked to the side, seemingly utterly unaware of what this whole situation feels like, _how can he not know-_

“Ed, you-” Oswald desperately struggles to breathe through the sudden fear, heart hammering painfully against his ribcage as decade old, dead memories flicker in the shadows. “Please tell me you know what this looks like.”

Ed looks down at the ring box in his hand and, painstakingly slowly, his lips curl in a sly grin. “I suppose I could have got down on one knee.”

Oswald pinches his eyes closed, hands shaking, despair crushing over him like a physical weight. 

So, this was deliberate. Ed had known exactly what he was doing, had known that this was a mockery of one of the most intimate exchanges two people could ever share, had decided abandoning him for months was not enough, the only thing that would satisfy him was his utter _humiliation-_

“Get out.”

Oswald opens his eyes and finally, _finally_ sees Ed’s expression turning to panic. All the cool confidence has melted and he is left exposed, standing abruptly. “Wait, Oswald. I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

Ed steps closer and Oswald instinctively retreats, legs hitting the back of a vanity table. “I mean it, Ed. Leave. _Now.”_

Ed jerks to a stop halfway, jaw working. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… In hindsight, that might have been in bad taste.”

“This whole evening has been in bad taste,” Oswald hisses. Despair swims thick in his stomach and every word is like ash in his mouth. 

Ed blinks, righting his glasses with a nervous movement. “But I thought- tonight was going well.”

“Ed, tonight has been a _farce.”_ Oswald feels his face contort, that age-old outrage the only thing keeping him from collapsing under the immensity of his mortification. “What the hell were you thinking? Disappear for months to _Russia_ or wherever the hell you’ve been, show up with no warning, order Chinese and then offer me a ring like you’re about to… You know you can’t just do this, _that I can’t-”_

 _Fuck,_ this is too close, too close to scratching against everything they haven’t talked about in over a decade, the ghost of something so horrific and awful always hovering in the corner of every conversation, lurking, waiting to destroy everything all over again-

_Sometimes, if you’re not very careful, friendship can blind you to what is staring you straight in the face._

“I didn’t think-”

“No, you clearly didn’t _think,”_ Oswald spits, panic and horror thrumming through his thoughts, control of the situation spiralling faster and faster away, “even for you, Ed, this is _cruel.”_

He barely catches the sound of Ed’s broken inhale, the echo of it sending knives through his abdomen.

"I’m sorry Oswald, please, I just- there was something..." Ed swallows, the movement seemingly painful. "I wanted to tell you something tonight and I thought this was the best way." 

The support structure he has spent the last decade and a half constructing, the defences he has desperately cobbled together are crumbling around him, Ed’s words as destructive as a grenade. _I can’t do this again, not again, please._

“What could you possibly want to tell me like this?”

Ed inhales deeply, eyes closed. _One. Two. Three._

“I lied.”

Oswald blinks, a streak of confusion cutting through the tangled mess of fear and fury. 

"What?" 

Ed’s face is abnormally pale. "Nyssa al Ghul, the woman that stole the submarine and your dog- _Edward."_

The memory alone sends a sharp bite of anger through him. "What about her?" 

"She escaped with the submarine.” Ed swallows, blinking too quickly. “Oswald, she didn’t have anyone with her. She piloted through the minefield _on her own."_

It takes a few moments for the thought to rattle through his mind, old assumptions shifting as he follows the implications to their inevitable end- _Oh._

 _It takes two men to pilot that submarine, Oswald._

Something seems to shake itself loose in Oswald's chest, each breath ragged and harsh against his lungs.

"So, when you said you came back because you had no choice..." 

Ed lets out a short, almost hysterical hiss of laughter. “Of course I had a choice. I could have left whenever I wanted.”

Oswald licks his lips, heart still crashing against his ribcage. 

"Alright, fine. Reveal all, _Riddler."_ Oswald squares his shoulders for the answer which already feels like a betrayal. "Why did you come back to Gotham?" 

Ed looks at him, jaw slack, eyes dark and raw in the shadows.

“I-”

Silence settles over them, charged and crackling, the rain rustling overhead. 

“What, Ed?” he asks again, voice strained, desperate.

A breath. And another. And then-

“I can fill a room or just one heart. Others can have me, but I can’t be shared. What am I?”

The words come out in a garble and it takes Oswald a moment before he realises Ed has asked him a riddle, a bloody _riddle,_ right now, and he wants to scream, wants to stab something, wants to sob.

But then the words register and sink and he cannot stop his sharp intake of breath. The answer, it couldn’t, it can’t be-

“It’s loneliness.”

Oswald feels like he’s been punched. His chest aches, almost feeling bruised and he forces his eyes shut. _Of course not. Never what you dream of. Never what you want._

“So, you’re telling me, the great secret you wanted to share _tonight,_ was that you came back to Gotham because you didn’t want to be _lonely?”_ Oswald cannot keep the sneer out of his tone, teeth clenched. “Sorry, would the dog not have kept you company?”

Ed runs a hand down his face, eyes pinched close. “I’m doing this all wrong.” 

“You don’t say,” Oswald bites out.

It takes a moment for Ed to recover himself, standing tall again as he straightens his jacket.

“Oswald Cobblepot,” he begins, voice already stronger and Oswald feels his heart begin to tremble again. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you for a long time. I’m struggling to change that now but- I’m trying.”

Dread seeps, dark and heavy in Oswald’s veins as he experiences an uncanny déjà vu. 

“I meant what I said after the barricades. I felt nothing for those people, for this city - I didn’t then, and I certainly don’t now. But I didn’t come back because I had no other choice.” Ed takes a steadying breath and those dark eyes lock with his, electricity thrumming in the space between. “I came back for you, Oswald.”

A beat passes. Then another. Oswald can barely breathe, barely _stand._

“What do you mean?” 

“You- you told me. On the pier. To listen to this-” A hand taps out a trembling rhythm against his green lapel and Oswald has to clutch the vanity behind him to keep himself upright. “And I’ve tried, I’ve been trying-”

“Just spit it out, Ed.” 

Ed’s teeth clack together, the sound painful in the strained hush of the room. He swallows, worries at his lower lip and speaks with the gentleness of a judge passing sentence.

“I have everything I could ever want. I’m the Riddler, infamous, my name terrifies all who hear it. I should be happy but I’m _not_ and it’s taken me so long to figure it out. But I know now. I know what I’m missing.” Ed looks down nervously at his hands, wets his lips. “Someone to share it with.”

_Please don’t, please, don’t do this, please not this, please…_

“I-” Ed’s eyes find his in the dark, shining with something like wonder. “I love you, Oswald.”

Everything goes still. His ears fill with the sound of rushing waves as the earth moves beneath his feet. The ground underneath him feels unstable, as if at any moment he could topple backwards into the freezing depths, grasping once more for something he will never be allowed to touch, falling, always falling. 

_I love you._

Oswald doesn’t hear it. He can’t have. Those words could never come out of _Edward Nygma’s_ mouth, not like this, not to him. Oswald’s hands shake against the table as he tries to keep breathing.

“And I’m not saying this to try and get you to say it back,” Ed continues with a huff of bitter laughter, seemingly oblivious to what destruction he has just wrecked, “I know I may well have- missed my chance, or ruined it with this disastrous evening. But you deserve to know.”

Something old and aching in Oswald stirs at those words, life and warmth and hope starting to whisper into the numb muscle of his heart and he- he cannot _bear it._

_You want to know why I could never love someone like you, Oswald? Because you are a spoiled child who throws a tantrum anytime he doesn’t get what he wants. Especially when what he wants doesn’t want him back._

_I don’t love you._

"No." Something in him shutters, cold, final. Dead. "You’re lying." 

The sight of Edward Nygma shocked is a look which Oswald would savour under any other circumstance. Right now, it just makes him feel sick. "Oswald, I’m not-" 

"Oh, please." Oswald can feel the bitterness which has festered in him for over a decade beginning to loosen, bubble, boil, poison spilling from his lips. "The only reason you would ever say those words is if you wanted to manipulate me. _Use me."_

Ed’s mouth hangs open, jaw a swinging gallows. "But it's true." 

Oswald laughs, the noise cold and harsh in the room which but a few minutes ago had been full of light. 

"Don’t insult me, Edward. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?” All of the fear in him has frozen and he is ice, cold, immovable. “Everything about tonight from the suit to the Chinese to the bloody ring - it's been a ploy, another of the Riddler’s famous death traps. How stupid do you think I am?"

Ed’s jaw drops, releasing a bewildered breath. "I planned this night to try and be _romantic,_ Oswald, not for some elaborate scheme-" 

_"Romantic?”_ Oswald cannot quite keep the hysteria from his voice, desperately trying to clamp down on the torrent of hurt spewing out of him like acid. “You expect me to believe you were trying to- to _woo_ me?”

It is difficult to see in the shadowed apartment, but Oswald could swear Ed’s cheeks darken slightly. “Clearly I wasn’t doing it very well.”

For a moment, Oswald’s self-righteous anger falters.

Ed never looks like this. Abashed, hell, _embarrassed._ Oswald feels like he’s about to throw up.

_Is it true? Could it be true?_

“Well, why now?" Oswald licks his lips, certainty solidifying in his veins like iron. "Why, after three years of freedom, would you choose tonight to make such a- a grand gesture?" 

Ed averts his gaze as he rubs the back of his neck and, yes, Oswald is sure, that is red darkening his usually pale skin. "It's-" Ed hisses out an anxious breath. “It's our anniversary.”

"I’m sorry?" Oswald asks, utterly dumb struck. 

"It's eighteen years. Since I saved you in the forest. I thought- I thought it would be meaningful. Almost…" He grimaces. "Like a riddle."

Silence threatens to drown him. His leg trembles as the ground beneath him feels ready to give way at any moment, mouth suddenly unbearably dry. 

“You know I don’t like riddles.”

Ed’s eyes flash in the dark, the embarrassment hardening to something stronger, an emotion burnished like steel.

“I know. So, it’s time I stopped speaking in them.”

Ed takes a step forward, expression suddenly determined and Oswald’s stomach plummets.

"My whole life I've always been the smartest person in the room. Then I met you. And, let me tell you," Ed lets out a weak chuckle, “that discovery was one of the most terrifying, exhilarating moments of my life, Oswald. That you could match me. That you could _know_ me.”

Another step closer and Oswald has to squash the thrashing in his stomach, screaming at him to run.

“The biggest mistake I’ve ever made was thinking I didn’t need you. But you were right. _There cannot be one without the other.”_

Oswald breathes in raggedly, a sudden burst of pain blooming, low in his gut. His vision swirls with mist and rainwater as those words echo again and again in the dark.

“I have seen you be so incredibly selfish, Oswald.” Those eyes are so wide and raw as he draws ever nearer. “Your opportunism and ambition hurt me so deeply, and I’d told myself you couldn’t love, that you were so self-consumed you couldn’t sacrifice anything but-”

Ed breaks off, blinking in wonderment. “All you’ve done is sacrifice for me. Your money, your revenge - hell, Oswald, your _eye._ I’ve been so _stupid._ It took me so long just to realise that you’d saved Lee when you didn’t need to.”

Oswald’s mouth is so full of seawater he cannot speak. His heart beats out a frantic rhythm against his ribcage and the world is narrowing, tunnelling to those dark eyes which seem to grow closer with each second-

 _“Oswald.”_ Ed’s voice is so low, half-whisper, half-growl and Oswald can feel the warmth of a phantom breath on his lips. “You made me. You trust me. You’re my best friend and I-”

Seaweed pulls against his limbs as Oswald breathes in salt and blood and Ed’s long fingers are reaching up and resting against his jaw and he feels so cold-

_"You've no idea how much I want you.”_

Oswald doesn’t hesitate. He shoves Ed as hard as he can before he can get any closer because - fuck, Ed had been about to _kiss_ him. 

Fuelled by the instinctual need to protect himself and a rush of abject horror, he blindly grasps behind him for the first thing he can find, brandishing a kitchen knife at this awful man before him.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me." 

Ed's hands are up, expression caught between mortification and despair. "Oswald, I'm sorry, I shouldn't-" 

"Shut up," Oswald hisses, “just shut up, shut _up.”_

A few tense moments beat out before them, both breathing heavily. The blade in Oswald’s hand is dull and small but it trembles between them all the same.

"Loving you killed me, Ed. It _destroyed_ me." 

Ed flinches a little and Oswald tries his hardest not to scream. 

"In fairness, you did warn me." Oswald swallows thickly, trying to twist his words with humour but all that comes out is venom. “‘For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness.’ The first thing you ever taught me." 

Ed’s eyes are wide, a vein beating out against his neck in panic. "No, I didn’t-" 

"For once in your life, Ed, can you just shut your mouth and _listen."_ Oswald takes a slow, steadying breath as the rage and despair threatens to overwhelm him. "Love for men like us is deadly, you've taught me that over and over again. I thought you would stop, but you never do, you keep _hurting_ me and I can’t keep doing this- " 

To his shame he has to blink away tears, arm dropping limply to his side. The aching pain in his chest is so intense, so unbearable, he can barely look at this man. 

“Tonight was a mistake…” Ed says slowly, soothingly, as if Oswald is a wild animal, ready to pounce and claw and tear at any moment. “I should have considered our history a little more carefully-”

“You don’t say.”

Ed squeezes his eyes closed for a moment as he releases a breath. “Even so, this isn’t a trick or some grand plan, Oswald. I’ve nothing to gain from this and everything to lose. It’s just the truth.”

The silence sounds like the moment before a gunshot.

“I _love_ you, Oswald.”

_No. You don’t, Ed. You don’t._

"I want you to leave.” Oswald sniffs, drawing himself up to his full height. “Whatever you are planning, keep me out of it." 

Ed stands rigid, every line of his body tight, as if he is about to fight this – and then he crumples.

"If... that's what you want.” Ed rubs a hand over his face, expression inexplicably drained. "I’m sorry, Oswald, for what it’s worth. I’m sorry." 

He can’t bring himself to watch Ed leave. Instead he turns to the window, eyes unseeing as he stares into the dark. He refuses to let Ed see him cry again. 

The elevator pings, doors slide open, then shut.

And Oswald is alone. Like always.

_Gotham has only ever taught me how to lose._

Oswald collapses onto the sofa, exhaustion flooding him like a tidal wave. Distantly, the grandfather clock chimes - one o’clock. Outside, the rain sounds louder now. Hissing out a slow breath between his teeth, he reaches for the wine bottle.

He drinks, as if he could wash out the bile in his throat, desperate for relief of any kind from this _pain-_

_You have no idea how much I want you._

Oswald lets out a low sob, the noise torn out of him, deep in his gut. 

“Damn it, Ed,” he whispers, eyes screwed shut against the memory of Ed so close, so beautiful, saying the words he has always wanted to hear- 

_I planned this night to try and be_ romantic, _Oswald, not for some elaborate scheme-_

Another swig of the bottle and Oswald roughly wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. 

A trick, all those words whispered with poison, everything a fake imitation, a fireplace flickering with false electric life, nothing but a poor mockery of what had once burned him from the inside out, how could he, how _dare he-_

_This isn’t a trick or some grand plan, Oswald. I’ve nothing to gain from this and everything to lose. It’s just the truth._

In one brutal movement, the bottle goes flying, hits the wall and _shatters,_ glass stained scarlet scattering across the floor, carpet soaking with red. Finally, some destruction to match the agony in his chest.

It is as if he has been shot again, blood oozing from his side like it will never stop, icy waters unable to numb the pain of it.

_I love you, Oswald._

The skin around his monocle stings with salt and Oswald blinks his eyes open, reaching up to rub away the tears when he spots it-

A small, utterly inconspicuous box, left on the coffee table, still presumptuously open, as if asking a question that could never be put into words. Oswald inhales, a shock of heat running through him as he looks down and realises-

The ring. He’s still wearing it.

Squinting, Oswald raises his trembling hand. In the firelight, the beautiful amethyst jewel glints at him, his own reflection caught in violet. Through all the rage and despair, he hadn’t thought to take it off, hadn’t even realised he was still wearing it. 

Oswald grimaces. He should throw it away, melt it, cast it into Gotham River, just- get it out of his sight, the awful thing probably wasn’t even his grandfather's, another fake, what’s one more lie to the Riddler-

_It’s our anniversary. It's eighteen years. Since I saved you in the forest._

Oswald pauses, fingers hovering, hovering so close over it… But something instinctual, seated deep within him protests, screams that he deserves to keep it, that this ring is his _right._

Slowly, that old threadbare rage of cloying years begins to fade and, rising in its place, a cold, sharp clarity. Feeling suddenly, intensely present in his own body, Oswald _thinks._

Lightning quick, he runs over Ed’s words from the evening, assessing them without the immediate whiplash fury, evaluates, pulls apart, truly listens for the first time.

_I thought- I thought it would be meaningful. Almost…_

“Like a riddle.”

Oswald exhales sharply, a lance of adrenaline shooting through him.

Just suppose that Edward Nygma, the _Riddler,_ really was trying to confess his love to someone. How would he do it? Oswald feels himself go cold as the answer comes to him, blindingly obvious.

_I know you, Ed. I may be driven by my emotions, but you are driven by something much more predictable. A desperate, compulsive need to complete what you’ve started in exacting fashion._

The dinner tonight, just like their first shared meal, eighteen years to the day Ed had found him in that forest. A gift given in firelight, precious not for its monetary worth but the display of loyalty that it represented. All wrapped neatly in a riddle, a full circle, perfectly crafted in every detail.

_I have no beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given._

“Worthless to one but priceless to two…”

Realisation strikes like lightning - the love of his life had just told Oswald he loves him, the only way he knows how.

And Oswald had kicked him out.

“Shit, shit, _shit-”_

Scrambling, Oswald runs for the elevator as fast as he is able, thoughtlessly grabbing an umbrella as the doors slide open.

He prays on his sainted mother’s grave that he isn’t too late, not again, not this time, _please._

"Ed!" 

Oswald frantically stumbles down the street, umbrella up, braced against the frenzied downpour. “Ed, _wait-”_

The street is empty but for a lone figure in green, barely forty paces away. Oswald laughs out a breathless whoop of joy - he can’t have left straight away, he must have hovered just outside, waiting, hoping-

_“Edward Nygma!”_

Finally, the figure startles, turns. Oswald limps faster, his Mother’s voice a gentle croon in his ear.

_Life gives you one love, Oswald. When you find it, run._

“Ed,” he gasps out, breathless as the burst of adrenaline begins to falter, “you didn’t leave.”

Ed looks at him, barely a metre or two away, body rigid. “No, not- not immediately.”

Oswald cannot stop a shaky smile as he struggles to control his breathing. His eyes flash up and he realises-

“You’re soaking.”

Oswald blinks, lungs aching with the strain of the sprint. Ed really is soaking; his previously styled hair hangs down in limp strands, deep green suit turned almost black on the shoulders from the rain. 

Ed’s jaw clenches, expression utterly guarded. “Not all of us carry umbrellas everywhere with us.”

_Well, it’s your lucky day._

Without thinking, Oswald steps forward, lifting the umbrella so this _unbearably_ tall man can fit underneath. Immediately, Ed recoils at the sudden invasion of his space, moving as if to step back-

“No, wait, wait,” Oswald pleads, hand shooting out to wrap around Ed’s arm, fixing him in place, “just- just let me speak.”

Ed’s spectacles are slightly misted up and speckled by droplets of rain, but even so, Oswald can still read the burning emotions hidden behind them. The fear, the panic, and that scrupulous, mysterious emotion from earlier that Oswald can now, finally identify as the faintest glimmer of hope.

“What is it?” Ed asks, voice hoarse. 

Ed’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and Oswald’s gaze is pulled by the movement, unbidden. Suddenly, he feels that burst of confidence wither as his own mouth goes dry and dusty. Years are stripped away, and he is a stuttering youth once more, throat choked with nerves, heart quivering like the rustle of strings. 

“I- I...”

“Oswald,” Ed says, tone almost pleading, desperate, “if you’ve come to humiliate me even further, _please,_ just-”

“I’m not here to humiliate you.” Oswald slowly releases his vice-like grip on Ed’s forearm, smoothing down the crumpled fabric with shaking fingers. He forces himself to breathe. “I was a little… in haste, earlier. I said some very vicious things and I couldn’t let you go without making that right.” 

Ed’s eyes flicker over him, muscle still coiled beneath Oswald’s hand, as if ready to run at any moment.

“So, you’re here to… apologise?”

_Oh, I forgot how hard this was._

“No- Well, yes, I am, but-” Oswald huffs out a breath of frustration, begins again. “Not just apologise. What I said before, that loving-”

“Loving me destroyed you.” Ed looks at a point somewhere just over Oswald’s shoulder, jaw tight. “Yes, I remember that part very well.”

A single drop of rain runs down Ed’s nose and Oswald blinks, dazed at the realization of how tantalising close they are. _Concentrate, Oswald. This is the final crossroads you will ever reach with this man – make it count._

“It’s true, it did destroy me. But, Ed,” Oswald swallows, “it didn’t ruin me.” 

Ed’s eyes flash to his and then down, gaze finally resting on the ring, shining in the streetlight. Immediately, Ed’s cold hands reach up to cradle his, thumb tracing the jewel. 

“You’re still wearing it.”

Ed looks up at Oswald, awe a deep, raw thing on his face. Oswald takes a breath, summons all the courage he has ever had in his life and plunges.

“Edward Nygma, I have loved you for almost two decades and it hasn’t killed me, not really. In fact, I am stronger than ever for loving you.”

If they weren’t so close, Oswald would have missed the tiniest gasp Ed makes at his words, the way his pupils dilate oh so slightly. The fingers around his tremble, tighten.

“You’re saying... that you love me? Still?”

Oswald cannot stop the smile, even as that old ache pulls at his chest. “I never stopped.” 

A tiny frown creases Ed’s forehead. “Even-”

“Even then. _Always.”_ A few breaths escape in a chuckle as he looks up at Ed’s awestruck expression. “My Mother once told me - life only gives you one, true love. I know it’s not the case for everyone and it sounds illogical but-”

“Love is anything but logical, Oswald,” Ed whispers, lips parted.

Oswald blinks, chest fluttering with anxiety and nerves and warmth, this beautiful, hopeful, longing warmth.

“My Mother’s words have rung true for me,” Oswald breathes. “It’s only ever been you.”

“Oh, _Oswald,”_ Ed exhales, eyes shining with wonder. Somehow, they have edged even closer.

“And you- you meant what you said?” Oswald licks his lips, that old paranoia creeping up his spine. “That you-”

“Love you?” Ed’s eyes close for a moment, quickly inhaling before they open again. “Yes. Almost for just as long, if I had realised it.” 

For the first time since he produced the ring box, Ed smiles, the sight utterly dazzling. 

“Yes, Oswald,” he murmurs, “I love you.”

Oswald looks up at him for a stolen moment, chest full of something, so huge and warm and overwhelming he feels ready to cry with the sheer immensity of it. That old, ancient tug pulls at him once again, his old centre of gravity kicking in, utterly immutable, irresistible… 

_Fortune favours the bold._

Oswald leans up, almost on tiptoe, and meets Edward Nygma’s lips with his own, eyes fluttering shut as the world finally stills.

For eighteen years of waiting, the moment is incredibly brief. Oswald pulls back in an anxious breath, stomach positively _writhing_ with nerves as he blinks stars out of his eyes. Ed is unmoving before him, eyes dark, practically frozen and Oswald suddenly fears there has been some sort of disastrous misunderstanding, that Ed really had tricked him all along, terror floods in as he is about to draw back when-

Ed _surges_ forward, one hand grasping the back of Oswald’s neck, the other fisting around his waist as he pulls him closer and Oswald is so startled, he drops the umbrella, a shocked _mmph_ escaping into Ed’s mouth as the freezing rain hits him-

And he couldn’t care less because Edward Nygma is _kissing him._

Immediately, Oswald kisses back, utterly inexperienced and fumbling hands reaching up to frame Ed’s face, relishing the foreign feel of another person’s lips on his, of _Ed’s_ lips against his, smooth, insistent, _adoring._

Once again, the plates of the world shift beneath his feet, realigning as a warmth floods him, soothing the scars and softening that old aching devotion until all that he knows, thinks, feels, is this undeniable _love._

The kiss is slightly awkward, clumsy as they clutch at each other, desperate, disbelieving, both utterly drenched as the rain soaks them within seconds.

Oswald barely notices.

Eventually, they pull back, both gasping as thunder rumbles overhead. Their shared breaths turn to mist between them and Oswald cannot stop _smiling._ In the rain, he cannot be sure if either of them is crying. Perhaps that is a mercy.

 _“Oswald,”_ Ed breathes, voice coloured with laughter and delight, thumb rubbing circles against his hipbone, “is there any chance we could move this back to your apartment? It’s a little wet out here.”

Oswald finds himself laughing, the sound lighter than it has been in years. Joy kindles in his chest and he cannot stop himself from pressing one more, lingering kiss to Ed’s lips, overjoyed that his smile is shared. 

He pulls back and is delighted to find that Ed seems instinctually to try and chase him, pulled by that same magnetic force he had always assumed unique to him.

“Edward Nygma,” he says, smile sharpening, “I thought you’d never ask.”

They hurry back to the apartment building, arm in arm, clinging to the other just a little too tightly, lightning crashing overhead. Oswald has barely set foot inside the elevator before he finds himself being pressed against the wall, a very determined Ed swooping down to meet him, mouth and fingers insistent. 

The umbrella clatters to the floor for the second time.

“I’m so sorry I made you wait,” Ed mumbles, lips ducking to Oswald’s neck as he presses the words into his skin, “all this time wasted, so stupid, sorry, so sorry-” 

Oswald gasps, head hitting the wall with a thunk, eyes fluttering closed. Heat he has never known pools in his stomach, liquid lava turning his limbs to water and he can barely breathe.

“Worth it, Ed, it was all worth it-”

“Always you,” Ed hisses, fingers fisting and curling in Oswald’s hair, tongue and teeth sucking just under his jaw, “no one else, not really, you, Oswald, just you, anything for you, _anything-”_

With a vicious yank, Oswald pulls Ed back up by the hair and slams their mouths together, eyes stinging with unshed tears as he kisses him with the force of eighteen years of desperate _want._

_At last, you’re here, you love me too, you love me, you’re here, finally, finally-_

Both of them startle as a noise sings loudly overhead, light shifting. Oswald blinks back to himself and realises-

“We’re here.”

Over Ed’s shoulder, the open doors reveal his apartment, dark but for the lights of Gotham glittering in the distance. Oswald huffs out a breathless chuckle, slowly smoothing his hands down the lapels of Ed’s drenched jacket.

"I see," he manages through the pounding heartbeat in his ears, licking his lips as his stomach flutters, “I suppose that we’ll need to talk about how to handle this, you know, publicly." 

Ed looks back at him, a bemused smile on his face. 

“You are ridiculous sometimes, Oswald.”

Slowly, Ed traces his thumb across Oswald’s cheek, the movement so startlingly gentle it almost feels more intimate than kissing. He leans forward, breath ghosting along Oswald's ear. “Half of Gotham already thinks we’re together. The other half will probably throw us a party."

Oswald puffs out an annoyed breath, cheeks growing warm.

"So I’ve heard. Still, it's probably something we should discuss.” A thought occurs and his smile turns wicked. “Although, I don’t know about you, but…"

Oswald uses his perfectly placed palms to shove Ed backwards through the open doors, relishing the sharp, startled surprise that flashes across his face.

"I think it can wait until tomorrow." 

Ed catches himself and looks up at Oswald, breathless, eyes alight. He grins and pulls Oswald through the open doors, finally home.

_"Tomorrow."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! 
> 
> It was oddly emotional writing the final lines of this fic, just like it was to finish Red in Tooth and Claw (for those who have stuck around since then and know I have a habit of delaying the release of a fic's final chapter!). What started as a vague desire to write something for the post-5x12 world when Gotham ended has since grown into something much larger than I'd ever planned and really does feel like my love letter to Nygmobblepot. It's been such a joy to revisit this pairing and so many of the scenes that I adore in the show, as well as include nods to several of my old Gotham fics in this 18,000 beast of an end. 
> 
> Finishing this story has proved very cathartic for me, being able to take the hopeful, optimistic end Gotham gave these two and imagine something a little more concrete and definite for them. I really hope this final chapter feels just as believable and honest as the previous seven did, and that it brings you a little closure for this wonderful pairing. The reception this fic has had has been a true delight over the last, difficult few months so please let me know what you thought in the comments! 
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading and let's see what comes next...


	9. Kiss (Epilogue)

_I can signal the end, trusted and true,_

_Or mark the beginning of something new._

_For some I am many, for others too few,_

_Worthless to one, priceless to two._

_What am I?_

It is no secret that Edward Nygma loves riddles.

He has always loved riddles, for as long as he can remember.

He adores the challenge they pose, the tantalizing process of twisting meaning, carving out consonants and connotations until they slot together in new ways, holding up words against a surgical light to see what new secrets are refracted in their depths.

Edward Nygma _loves_ riddles. So, it really should have been obvious that the love of his life would be the greatest riddle of them all.

Unfortunately, it takes Ed a rather long time to realize that.

?

The first time Edward Nygma finds himself wanting to kiss Oswald Cobblepot it means very little.

He has met Oswald twice at this point: first, at the GCPD, riddles and warnings buzzing in the air like mayflies, and then, second, in the woods, moonlight spilling over dead leaves and splattered blood like something out of a fairy tale.

_“Help me. Please.”_

Oswald commands and Ed obeys. It really is that simple.

Now, Oswald Cobblepot, the _Penguin_ , lies barely a few feet away, tucked beneath geometric quilts in Ed’s apartment, caught in unconsciousness. The reality of the situation strikes him like a blade to the gut:

Ed has _the Penguin,_ the _King of Gotham_ , in his apartment. In his _bed_.

Ed’s mind thrills with potential, possibilities, thoughts a livewire of excitement as he inches closer, limbs pulled forwards by some strange magnetism, the universal laws of attraction harsh and unforgiving. Oswald demands his entire attention, even in this unconscious state.

All too quickly, his knees press against the mattress.

Gingerly, carefully, Ed bends closer, spine curving as it had when he had injected Oswald’s long, lovely neck with a syringe barely a few hours ago. He peers down at the Penguin’s unconscious body, catalogues the sallow cheeks and clammy skin, hair still matted with forest residue, delighting in the scattered freckles and slightly hooked nose.

A heady rush of power causes Ed to inhale sharply. This information is precious, unprecedented - _no one_ gets this close to the King of Gotham and lives.

How utterly thrilling.

 _You could kiss him_.

The thought scuttles across his mind like a spider, long legs darting back into the shadows so quickly that he almost wonders if it was there at all.

Ed’s hands flutter at his side, fingers still blistered from the strain of burying bodies and hears it again.

_You really could kiss him._

Ed swallows, adrenaline spiking through him as he imagines leaning forward, even further, brushing away those dark strands of hair and pressing his lips to Oswald’s forehead. Gentle, tender, like one would kiss a child before bedtime.

Oswald would never know.

Ed would have kissed _the Penguin_ and survived.

Abruptly, he rises, retreats, brushes aside the odd, deranged, _dangerous_ impulse and forces his thoughts to the far more pressing matter at hand. When Oswald wakes again, he is going to try to leave and Ed simply cannot allow that to happen. He needs to find something, some secret thread buried in Oswald’s psychi that he can pull, some hidden catch that will keep him here, keep him close, Oswald can’t go, he _needs_ him-

In the corner of his vision shadows flicker, a twisted laugh echoing in the crevices of his mind.

_You always were a coward, Edward._

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Ed straightens. He doesn’t have time for ridiculous notions like _kissing the Penguin_ , not now, not when there is so much at stake. He cannot afford distractions.

It is over a year before he lets himself think of kissing Oswald again.

??

At first, Ed doesn’t think about… well, about _that_ because there is so much else that demands his attention.

_“For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness. We are better off unencumbered.”_

One knife held against his neck and two sea-green, storm cloud eyes are as life-changing as clutching the crumpled, lifeless body of Miss Kringle once was.

It is like Oswald’s presence alone electrifies him, a spark crashing from railway tracks overhead that throws everything into sudden relief. Even when Oswald is arrested, Ed finds himself propelled forward by that energy.

Oswald’s momentum carries him into art exhibitions and train stations, the same parlour tricks and word play he has hidden behind for decades finally weaponised, green spray paint as deadly as the best poison.

Everything is going _perfectly_. Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock and Captain Barnes stumble around, tripping over marionette strings, utterly oblivious while Ed watches from a distance, the curl of his grin hidden behind a question mark mug. He feels _invincible_.

So, when a warped, wide-eyed Oswald reappears, it is all too easy to turn him away. Hubris whispers that he can go it alone, the student has become the master, he doesn’t need Oswald.

He doesn’t need _anyone_.

Before he knows it, Ed is facedown in the snow, clothes soaked with at least six automatic rifles pointed at his skull.

He can almost hear Kristen laughing at him.

So, at least at first, Ed doesn't think about ludicrous things like kissing Oswald Cobblepot because he is... distracted. The first few months in Arkham Asylum similarly prove quite a diversion, the way only heart-stopping terror can consume every single shivering thought. But after Hugo Strange vanishes and the monsters in the basement are brushed away, the distractions quickly dry up.

Each day is mind-numbingly, insultingly _slow_. Drudgery is made an art form in these monochrome halls and it is all Ed can do to keep himself from cracking open an orderly’s skull, just to see a splash of colour. 

For six months, the only remotely interesting thing that ever happens is Oswald.

Slowly, Ed’s curiosity dissolves into confusion, which withers to guilt and finally coalesces in an uncomfortable, sticky sort of gratitude.

Oswald is so _kind_ to him. Every arrival of a sweater or puzzle book or biscuit tin makes his face go hot with embarrassment, heart picking up as he swears he can smell Oswald’s cologne on each new letter.

And then, as if he hasn't done enough, Oswald goes even further. Oswald frees him, graciously gives him a home when Ed had barred him from his and it doesn’t make sense, he can’t comprehend it, cannot parse Oswald’s words for the secret meaning that must lie behind them because there must be some reason he is doing this, some hidden agenda, surely, why else-

_“Why are you being so kind?”_

Oswald is a mystery, a riddle of the finest calibre. Ed knows him, believes in him, is devoted to him, completely and utterly - and yet, he still doesn’t know _why_.

Everyday he breathes through this bewildered, disbelieving gratitude and hero-worship and stops himself from thinking- from wanting-

Oswald has given him so much already. To demand more would be too much. Wouldn't it? He couldn’t. There’s no way that Oswald would ever…

Friendship is more than enough. It's all he wants. Really.

_You always were a coward, Edward._

However, one day, the impossible happens.

Oswald is eclipsed as a different mystery drowns Ed in darkness.

_“I met someone. I think I’m in love.”_

All of a sudden, Ed’s days are full of golden hair, red lips and green eyes. Everything about her, about their relationship is so familiar, every conversation is coloured with the nostalgia of looking over old photo albums. Even her name is like something out of a story book. _Isabella._

Fate’s mystery, a nonsensical second chance that he cannot resist, a riddle so perfect he forgets that there was something to solve in the first place.

For a moment, Ed believes he could be happy.

He believes he might even deserve it.

And then, Ed is looking down at another corpse on another morgue slab and all he can see is Kristen, the second chance of a life he once killed for ripped away, cruelty so precise it is almost surgery.

The grief of losing that chance hurts like hell, like a bullet to his gut.

However, the realisation that it was _Oswald_ who did it?

The betrayal is the worst thing Ed can remember feeling, worse than killing Kristen, worse than the torment of his childhood, worse than _anything_. Oswald, his best friend, the man he would have done anything for, absolutely anything, _betrayed_ him and why?

_“I did it because I love you.”_

Oswald lies to him through crocodile tears and Ed sees scarlet, thoughts eviscerated as a rage he hadn't known himself capable of takes over.

He could have lived a life with the woman he loved, he could have been happy-

_“No, Ed, you would have killed her. Just like you did the other one. You couldn’t have helped it.”_

Vengeance burns all warmth and light from his body, cauterises all other considerations, until he finds himself standing on a pier, gun in hand, looking down at dark waves. He gasps, air cold and sharp down his throat.

_This will be the cold-blooded murder of someone you love._

In the mist and drizzle, he can almost see the water staining red.

Frantically, Ed turns and half-stumbles away, desperate to be anywhere but here.

“I don’t love you,” he hisses, face hot, chest burning, “I _don’t_.”

???

After that, he doesn’t let himself think of Oswald at all.

Or, at least, he tries.

Sleep evades him. The whispers of Kristen and Isabella chase at his heels, voices so similar he struggles to tell the difference. Phantoms haunt the mirrors of this ancient, empty, awful manor house and always Elijah Van Dahl stares down at him, painted brushstrokes jagged like a judge passing sentence.

The days bleed together, and Ed can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think.

Never in his life has he not been able to _think_ before.

Finally, after awakening from the thousandth dream of seaweed around his throat and blood in his mouth, Ed relents. He finds pretty white pills that promise him absolution and gives himself over to the rush of endorphins, he needs this, needs to see him one more time, just _once_ -

_“Hello, Edward.”_

It is like breaking the surface of Gotham River, breathing in air for the first time since he stood on that pier.

_“Oswald.”_

Ed knows he should stop taking the pills. It is an obvious weakness that his enemies could exploit, one that he has advertised to Barbara Kean of all people. What’s more, he can already feel them beginning to alter his body chemistry, fingers constantly fiddling with the small box as he reads over files, absently checking and re-checking his supply level at a near paranoid rate but-

In his worst moments, the idea of never seeing Oswald again feels something awfully close to terror.

_“The trouble with talking to projections of your psychi is that they know everything you know. Including the things you are trying not to know.”_

In his lucid moments, which are growing few and far between, Ed chides himself for such sentimental, indulgent reasoning. The pills are a temporary solution to a transient problem. Once he finds a mentor, someone with an intellect to rival his own, when the time is right, he will give them up. Life will be normal again.

It will be fine.

It will.

_"Ed, we are not sleeping. You are taking drugs. You are having a conversation with your dead friend. Just admit that you are lost without me or you will destroy everything."_

Ed ignores him. He’s gotten very good at that lately.

He isn’t lost. He doesn’t need-

He doesn’t want-

This is all ridiculous. Ed is in complete control. He isn’t dependent, he isn’t addicted, he certainly isn’t taking them because he _misses-_

_He’s fierce in my dream, seizing my guts, he floats me with dread..._

For the first time, the illusion that appears is of Oswald as he had been in life, not covered in seaweed and river-water, but immaculate, incandescent, breath-taking. It is so shockingly real that Ed almost believes it, almost believes that Oswald is truly alive and in the room with him, that if he were to reach out, he would touch skin, not air.

Like a burst dam, heat floods his veins and he cannot _breathe_.

The world fills with red, exactly the same shade as the blood which had spilled through Oswald’s fingers and Ed is furious, heart racing, chest heaving-

_Soaked in the soul, he swims in my eyes by the bed..._

Oswald looks at him and, for one infinitesimal moment, Ed gives in, surrenders to the rush of endorphins and bitterly, viciously imagines what it would be like, to burn his lips against Oswald’s, to crush him against a wall, choke him, squeeze and suffocate that long, white neck, lick and bite and tear and take, force him to his knees, brand him, own him, possess, devour him until there is nothing left, nothing for anyone else, all his own, all _his_ -

Ed slaps himself, desperate to pull away, the fantasy so vivid he chokes on it, skin burning, utterly terrified that if he allows it for one moment longer, he will be pulled under, lost forever in scarlet waters.

An Oswald conjured by chemicals smirks at him, barely ten paces away, and Ed wishes he could kill him all over again.

_Pour myself over him, moon spilling in..._

Ed swallows down bile and it tastes of iron. Stubborn, petulant determination sets in and all thoughts of Oswald are brutally incinerated. He will find a way forward, without a mentor, without the _Penguin_. He will find himself on his own.

He must.

_And I wake up alone..._

????

So, it turns out, Oswald is a bitch of a man to kill.

At first, Ed honestly believes it is a hallucination. That this small, sputtering, snarling vision in the strange bird-cage next to him is just a creation of shadows, his other self come to taunt him again.

“I demand to speak to the person in charge,” a voice he only hears in his dreams spits out and, suddenly, Ed doubts.

“Oswald?”

No, no, it can’t be, he can’t be here, it isn’t possible-

The phantom before him turns, eyes wide and Ed cannot help but gasp, blood gone cold as if he has just been submerged in icy water.

“You’re _alive_?” Ed is furious, frustrated, terrified, confused, skin freezing, blood rushing to his ears-

Oswald steps forward and, in the dark shadows of the cage, he looks more like a ghost than he ever did in Ed’s imagination.

_You can’t be real._

He looks smaller somehow, with his ruffled hair and dull prison overall. Something about him is rumpled, weaker, not at all the old towering presence a suit and a spike of hair gel had seemed to create in him. But those eyes, they are exactly the same. Sea depths brimming with writhing emotion, such dark _hatred_ -

Ed gets so lost in them he barely pulls back in time when Oswald lunges.

In that moment, as Oswald’s fingers curl like claws around the bars, Ed feels the most viciously, thrillingly alive he has in his entire life.

_So the game is to continue for a little longer._

He realises how this will end as soon as Oswald reaches for him. There is no way they will escape this place alone, as much as Ed might stubbornly attempt it. They will simply have to work together if they ever want the chance of revenge.

Still, the thrill of holding a knife to Oswald’s throat and not slitting it is almost too great a temptation.

“Your death scene was quite convincing.” Ed wishes his voice wasn’t so rough, so affected but the sight of Oswald caught in arterial spray is unparalleled.

“Well,” Oswald says, lips twisting into something far too animalistic to be called a smile, “I’ve had some practice, haven’t I?”

The next hour passes in a dizzying rush of adrenaline, ears full of the pounding of his frantic heart, face split wide, skin splattered red. _Dozens_ die at their hands, the world burning with bloodshed, crunching, carving, cutting, scrambling out of the dark together.

_Together._

At long last they burst out into the night and Ed feels utterly exhilarated. He watches as Gotham’s homeless flee from Oswald like he is a monster and not a man, some eldritch abomination conjured from the darkness that knows only how to hunt. Ed’s grip on the crowbar tightens.

His blood sings with opportunity at the tempting sight of Oswald with his back turned. It would be so easy, so quick, the bastard wouldn’t even feel any pain...

But then, Oswald is rounding on him with a near supernatural speed, eyes wild, blade raised as if he had sensed the danger. Ed cannot stop himself from grinning. _Oh, how I have missed this._

“Our agreement still holds for five hours.”

“I’m aware.”

The sound of metal hitting concrete is too loud in the now empty alleyway. Slowly, Ed breathes in cold air that tastes like iron and electricity and he cannot help but step closer, lips stretched wide, skin burning.

“How do you expect to win, Oswald? Barbara Kean runs the underworld, we have the gangs. You have... _yourself_.”

He laughs and is shocked to hear how genuine the sound is.

Oswald is quick to stop it.

“Actually, I have an army of Hugo Strange’s monsters at my command.”

Ed’s smile fades but the heat remains. Only now, with Oswald standing before him once again, does he see how numb he has been since that pier, how aimless. He has found his true role as the Riddler but only wandered distractedly through his lines and directions, lacking the right audience, the right energy-

“But even if I were alone, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oswald grins up at him, painted in blood and illuminated by fire and, for the first time in so very long, Ed finds himself gloriously alive.

Alive and _hungry_.

For a brief, blistering second, he maps out the force he would need to throw Oswald against the closest wall, the precise angle necessary to pin his arms, to crush bone as Oswald struggles against him, teeth bared, furious, blackened eyes, neck titled just _so_ for Ed to descend and lick and suck and bite, draw blood, ruby red against pearl white, paint Oswald’s teeth scarlet, make him say his name, force it from him, _the Riddler_ , _Riddler_ again and again and again over and over until he can’t remember his own just his leave him shaking breathless lost as he takes, tastes, _adores-_

“I suppose we’ll see.”

Ed inhales, chest burning.

“I suppose so.”

Ed’s fingers flex and curl as he turns, nails biting into his palm to keep him walking, gaze fixed straight ahead.

This is it. The last time. This insipid desire is Oswald’s weakness, _not_ his own. To indulge such reckless thoughts is suicide. He is better than this.

He is better than _him_.

_You always were a coward, Edward._

It takes approximately six and a half seconds for Ed to give in to temptation. He glances back and Oswald’s eyes meet his in the dark.

Ed doesn’t let himself look back again.

????

Ed keeps his promise. He doesn’t look back again. Still, that doesn’t stop him from losing.

_“I know you, Ed. I may be driven by my emotions, but you are driven by something much more predictable. A desperate, compulsive need to complete what you’ve started in exacting fashion...”_

Standing on that pier, unarmed, in the middle of a storm is the most scared Ed has felt since his childhood, because of what it means. What it makes possible.

Because, if Oswald was right about this, then what else could he be right about?

_“Why didn’t you just kill me, Oswald?”_

Oswald turns his back on him and he might as well have done.

Rage and vengeance and grief are consumed in a burst of white and Ed is frozen in the worst moment of defeat, utterly humiliating because, despite it all, in his last moments, he reaches for Oswald Cobblepot.

He thinks he dreams in the ice. Later, he will of course dismiss such notions as fanciful delusions created by his rushed, unregulated thawing. Ed knows that a frozen creature’s mind is dormant and cannot dream and, yet, he remembers shapes and shadows, mist and fog, black waves and green eyes, grey bullets and red lips.

_You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other._

Eventually, he wakes, the coldest he has ever felt in his life and immediately knows-

He has come back wrong.

Revived by this awful parody of Kristen, red curls and nonsense riddles and he cannot _think_. His fingers are shaking so much that he cannot possibly start to piece back together the shattered glass of his thoughts; each moment seesaws between a numb, nothingness and sharp, slicing pain and it is all wrong, _he_ is wrong.

Oswald did this to him.

 _Oswald_ did this.

That Iceberg Lounge poster flickers behind his eyelids, Oswald’s smug face, proudly displaying Ed’s humiliation to the world always dancing in his periphery.

_I want you around as a constant reminder never to make that mistake again._

He finds a gun. He storms the Lounge. He demands vengeance. There should be screams, fury, fire, bullet hails and bloodlust but instead Oswald bats him away like an irritating horsefly.

He isn’t angry. He isn’t broken. He isn’t even _scared_.

_“You’re just Ed Nygma. And not even Ed Nygma.”_

Oswald merely looks at him like Ed reminds him of someone he once knew, turns his back on him and walks away.

Ed never knew mercy could be so cruel.

_“Who am I?”_

He doesn’t know the answer, so, until he works it out, he scrounges up scraps, creates a piece-meal persona of shredded memories and ruined riddles. While stupid, idiotic Ed can no longer think, he can certainly _feel_.

He remembers the ancient rage which had once turned his vision red, the roaring fury of hurt, of grief, of betrayal. Blindly he reaches for it, that old sense of surety, of laser-point focus on vengeance and finds himself fumbling in the dark. The pain is gone, faded like cigarette smoke leaving nothing but an old, dull burn in his throat on each inhale.

Still, he can pretend, dress for the part, mock the Penguin gleefully because maybe this will get his attention, get him to come back, to care, to hurt him again, bring back the anger, the pain, the purpose, tell him _who he is-_

Oswald never comes and Ed is left alone.

So, when Lee Thompkins smiles at him, lips painted red and hair dark, almost exactly the right shade, he falls, hook, line and sinker. Lee promises control, challenge, comfort, another chance at a life he could have had. He gets so swept up in it that he is almost ready to die to prevent himself from hurting her.

Ed tells himself it is love because what else could it be?

Lee sees him. Lee knows him, the real him, knows what he can be. He doesn’t need anyone else, not his other self, and certainly not Oswald Cobblepot, he _doesn’t-_

“I see you, _Riddler_.”

Ed never had a chance.

Oswald says his name, his _real_ name for the first time and Ed is lost, utterly and completely, his reflection trapped in Oswald’s watery eyes, drowning, pulled down and down and down beneath those stormy waves and, oh, how appropriate, how fitting, that Edward Nygma’s killing blow should be delivered by this man, in this way.

Fingers that once squeezed the life from Kristen Kringle's neck tremble against Oswald’s skin. The space between them is barely there, infinitesimal and yet also entirely too great.

The Riddler takes his first breath, the air from Oswald’s lungs fills his own and he can do nothing else but laugh.

_“I let him out of his cage and he in turn helped me get out of mine.”_

After the slow drudgery of the past months, time races now, matching the frantic speed of Ed’s thoughts. Everything is wonderful. Lee looks at him and, for the first time, seems just a bit afraid - _you’ll do better with that one if she’s a little scared of you_ \- and, incredibly, Oswald agrees to his plan that will bring down Sofia Falcone.

Even through the torture, gums oozing hot and red, he cannot shake this sense of elation. At long last, he is free. It feels like _flying_.

However, he doesn’t escape. He isn’t rescued. Instead, he finds himself kneeling on the pier ( _this_ pier, again, _really?_ ), mouth aching and two guns to his head. No way out, no escape, only Gotham River and the inevitability of fate.

_“Just do it.”_

Ed has always known Oswald would be the one to kill him.

He had never thought Oswald would be the one to save him.

_“You gave up your revenge for me?”_

Oswald stands, shivering in the rare Gotham sun, arms wrapped around himself in his ridiculous, oversized coat and doesn’t even raise his gun.

_“Trust is so very hard to find in Gotham. But I trust you, Ed.”_

Ed hesitates, for a moment, hand around his gun shaking ever so slightly... before he puts it away.

They walk away from the docks, together and it is like something clicks in Ed’s brain, veins rushed by the same burst of adrenaline he gets when the final piece of a frustratingly incomplete puzzle is slotted into place. 

_“I have a strong desire to never, ever see this pier again.”_

Full circle, at long last.

It is why he can betray Oswald without feeling guilty.

_“We have been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge on you. But you come against Lee and you come against me.”_

Yes, of course, he knows that the Riddler owes Oswald everything. But, he also knows how quickly that man can suck him in, remembers in excruciating detail how easy it is to surrender everything and lose himself completely to the Penguin. Ed refuses to play second fiddle to him again, no matter the cost.

_There is no Ed Nygma without the Penguin._

So, instead, he returns to Lee. He kisses her like she is poison and imagines what it would be like to put his hands around her neck and _squeeze_. He consciously, viciously, vindictively chooses her over Oswald and every day feels like a victory.

Lee kills him anyway.

_“I was never going to be who you wanted. Sooner or later you were just going to kill me. It’s just what you do.”_

The last thing he tastes is her blood in his mouth and even that feels like one last victory over Oswald.

At least, it would have.

Time goes wrong after that. He’s alive, but not really. It’s not like it was after the ice. Then, he had drifted in and out of numbness, the world sluggish and slow, thoughts and riddles constantly, spitefully spiralling away from him.

Waking up from the ice had been a nightmare, but this?

Ed is pretty sure _this_ is hell.

He is spat out into the world like some mongrel’s vomit, his thoughts spiking between mania and nothingness. Periods of time are just gone, eaten up by this empty fugue state with no rhyme or reason. It is like sometimes he just- stops. Ceases. A machine losing power. Memories he can’t piece together sit, cramped and uncomfortable in his mind, digging into his cerebral cortex at all the wrong angles and he feels like he’s had this headache for _decades_.

He is broken. Ed can feel himself unravelling, like a jumper caught on a nail, thread pulled apart till there is almost nothing left. He can’t trust anything to be real. Every moment _hurts_ and he begins to wonder if he really did die, if Lee had killed him and this world is his punishment for Kristen, for Isabella, for-

_“I promise you. I’m going to fix you, Ed.”_

When he does manage to sleep uninterrupted, the only thing he dreams about is Oswald.

He sees his face, sometimes sneering, sometimes desperate, sometimes gentle. He dreams of hands in his hair and weight on his lips and somehow that is worse than anything else, that his one anchor to reality should be the Penguin, his enemy, the man who defeats and destroys him again and again and he can't do it, he can’t stand it anymore, how could he be this _cruel_ -

As his sanity crumbles, Ed clutches onto one, last promise.

He’s going to kill Oswald for this.

This time, he really will. He has to, after he’s done _this_ , after he’s brought him so low. Nothing is going to change his mind, he has no other choice, he has to end this before Oswald can open his mouth and-

_“You paid Hugo Strange to save me?”_

For the hundredth time, Oswald blindsides him, pulls the rug out from beneath his feet and Ed is lost, freefalling through darkness.

_“What was I supposed to do, let you die?”_

Oswald looks at him, _sees_ him, presses his heart against the shaking barrel of Ed’s gun, back straight and eyes hard as steel and says that he needed him, saved him, would never hurt him in some backhanded way.

_“I promise you that, as a friend.”_

For the first time in this awful parody of Gotham, Ed feels like he can breathe.

Thoughts finally clear, the next few days race by. The insidious chip in Ed’s brain is removed and he could weep with relief.

That Oswald would find him and, even after everything, ask for a truce, an alliance, a partnership should not come as such a surprise and yet… Ed cannot help but feel off-balance.

It is logical, of course. Like their agreement to escape the Court of Owls together, like Oswald restoring the Riddler to escape from Arkham. When necessity requires it, when there is simply no other choice, they can work together.

Simple reason, an assessment of the facts and a decision determined by survival. That is all it means. Nothing more.

_(“It means fate has different plans for us.”)_

Ed tries to keep his distance. He focuses on the work, keeps the ticking clock at the forefront of his mind at all times and does _not_ think about the way Oswald brings him coffee each morning, does _not_ think about how Oswald’s eyes light up when Ed cooks them dinner out of their meagre remaining rations, does _not_ think about the mesmerising quality Oswald’s skin seems to acquire when caught in candlelight.

Ed simply cannot afford distractions.

But then, one ridiculous day, a dead employee of the Penguin and a talking dummy waltz into their safehouse, holding them at gunpoint and suddenly Oswald is declaring unspoken secrets, confessing that he wasn’t a good friend, _to you or to anyone_ , and his eyes find Ed’s and it is closer to an apology than he had ever dreamt of and-

Ed wants to scream. He cannot believe it. He cannot _understand_. Nothing about Oswald Cobblepot makes the remotest bit of sense.

But for once, Ed’s thinking mind shuts off. Because a madman, Penn or whatever his name was, a snivelling idiot who had made Oswald’s face light up with something close to delight when he’d first walked in, is _straddling_ Oswald, hands pawing against his lapels, whispering words of thanks and praise-

Ed reaches for the gun before he has time to question why.

_“I accept you for the person you are, just as you accept me for the cold logician I am.”_

In that moment, metal heavy in his hand and a fresh corpse at his feet, Ed cannot stop the words spilling from his lips like oil from a leaking engine. Satisfaction curls low in his gut at the sight of Penn dead on the floor, heart juddering against his ribcage.

_“It’s why this friendship is great.”_

Oswald looks up at him, face whirling through half a dozen different emotions that Ed cannot for the life of him piece together into a cohesive whole.

Finally, Oswald smiles, skin painted with scarlet and Ed finds himself suddenly breathless.

_“I suppose, Edward, we really are meant for each other.”_

Ed laughs, stomach fluttering with something almost nervous as Oswald joins him, slapping the floor in mirth. Adrenaline makes his knees weak. For a startling second, he is lost in the fantasy of what it would be like to lick the blood from Oswald’s skin, just to see how it tastes.

_Oswald in red really is a weakness of yours, isn’t it?_

They are so close to escape. Ed refuses to let anything stand between his and Oswald’s freedom, regardless of whether that unforseen obstacle is a talking dummy or a pregnant Barbara Kean.

Somehow, Lee Thompkins is the one that surprises him the most.

_“Don’t worry, I’m not here for you. But, for the record, you stabbed me first.”_

Ed knows he doesn’t love Lee like he once did. Or, at least, he doesn’t want her like before. He looks at the woman who murdered him, meets those brown eyes no longer shadowed by eyeliner and bitter weariness, and can feel the palpable _lack_ of ferocious, demanding emotion that had once consumed him.

He still saves her, but, as he walks away with Oswald at his side, he doesn’t once feel tempted to look back.

In honesty, the greatest shock of seeing Lee is the realisation that he hasn’t thought of her properly in months.

That should have been a warning.

_“You have been down this road before. Following your heart has never worked out for you.”_

For the second time, Ed is left watching Oswald walk away from him on this damn pier. It feels just as cold this time around, even standing in the light of a withered sun. Ed just stares at Oswald’s diminishing outline, limbs frozen, ears full of static, stomach swooping.

He should get on the submarine and leave. Get out. Begin again and leave Gotham to its fate. It’s only logical. There is _no point_ in dying like this.

Ed turns, ready to board the submarine he has spent months constructing and never look back, when his gaze catches on the edge of the pier and he stumbles. It is like being encased in ice all over again as his vision is filled with mist and rain, red blood slipping through fingers and wide, sea-green eyes disappearing into darkness.

_Don’t you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?_

“ _Damnit_ , Oswald.”

He’d always known Oswald would be the death of him. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Fate. 

_Following your heart has never worked out for you._

The great irony, of course, is that Oswald would have been better off if Ed hadn’t come.

_“I’m so sorry, I saw the grenade and I froze-”_

He had been an idiot, a worthless _idiot_ , stupefied by a grenade in a war zone and he could have left, he should have, if he’d been logical, if he’d been strong enough to resist that old siren call Oswald wouldn’t have gotten hurt, there wouldn’t be shrapnel buried in his eye and it’s a miracle really that he isn’t dead, that Ed didn’t kill him properly this time, what was he thinking _what is wrong with him-_

_“Shh. It was the least I could do.”_

Ed swallows down bile and hopes desperately that he isn’t about to be sick, stomach twisted, chest tight, his fingers itching anxiously, uselessly.

He can feel something, some old, ancient emotion shifting beneath his skin. His heart trembles like the first tremors of an earthquake and he just knows it is only a matter of time before everything he has built for the last five years comes crumbling down around him.

_Perhaps. But perhaps you could learn something if you listened to this, instead of this._

Somehow, they win. Gotham is saved. Life will resume at long last.

Business as usual.

So, Ed makes the logical deduction. With victory secured the ceasefire is over, the alliance terminated. He is well aware of what happens next.

_I’m the revealer of masks. When I appear friend becomes foe, and the one that you love becomes the one that you hate. What am I?_

In a warm, firelit room, Ed embraces Oswald for the first time in years and raises his blade.

_Betrayal. It’s how every friendship ends. So what good are friends anyway?_

Ed has done this before. He recalls his lines and directions perfectly. He knows that he is always the second to strike, and so, he waits.

He has often wondered what it would be like to be killed by Oswald Cobblepot. He remembers the moment it all began, when Oswald had held a knife against his throat so hard he had almost drawn blood and it is almost a relief that the moment has finally arrived, that they are here, the two of them, finally ending this, together-

_I hope you know, Oswald. I would do anything for you. You can always count on me._

Ed waits, dagger ready, phantom pain already blooming in his abdomen in anticipation, ice splintering beneath his skin. He takes a breath and waits and waits and waits…

And nothing. The blade never comes.

Oswald whimpers out a broken sound against his neck and the moment breaks. Ed exhales in a hiss of disbelief, muscles reacting on instinct as he clutches Oswald closer, heart trembling, fingers twisting fiercely at his shoulder.

Ed cannot stop a whisper of a smile parting his lips as something warm and light and golden pools in his chest.

_Life begins anew._

Since that day, since Oswald held a knife to his back and let him live, that strange, unruly feeling has only grown. This warmth that Ed refuses to name has spread, fluttering, soothing, burning, branding. Each day he tries to ignore it, repress it, refute it but he knows it is only a matter of time until that is no longer an option.

It is like being in free fall, stomach swooping up into his throat, the world spinning around him with no indication of when or where he’s going to land.

But he knows, when he does, he’s going to land _hard_.

It only takes six months for him to hit.

It has been half a year of hard, continuous work since reunification. Rome wasn’t built in a day and Gotham is no different, but he and Oswald have made good use of the time afforded to them. Slowly but surely, they have positioned their pieces on the board, waiting for the chance of their first big play.

Not once has Ed genuinely entertained going it alone. Occasionally he has been tempted, but…

It would seem that Oswald had been correct. For now, at least, in Gotham’s fetal state, they are stronger together.

At last their long awaited opportunity arises: the largest rival gang reveals the location of their main weapons and money cache. It is all too easy to organise a hit and, best of all, they get the chance to finish off the stragglers in person.

_We will take what we want from who we want and we will suffer no fools. Together._

“I don’t know about you, Ed, but I would say that went rather well.”

As their car rolls to a stop in an alley close to their safe-house, Ed casts a quick glance over the copious duffel bags strewn across the backseat. He grins.

“Swimmigly.”

Oswald brandishes a quick flash of teeth before turning his attention to the windshield mirrors, no doubt checking for any pursuers or curious citizens.

“Oh, typical,” Oswald huffs, catching sight of a few stray spots of blood splattered across his cheek and the collar of his shirt, unnoticed collateral from the fight. “I just bought this suit. Dry cleaning never really gets blood out properly.”

Suddenly, a thought seems to occur, and Oswald turns to him, grinning. “Hey, what’s black, white and red all over?”

A beat of silence.

“A bloody penguin,” Oswald chirps, proudly.

Ed looks at him, face painted with blood, eyes warm and trusting, something like a riddle on his lips and realises-

_I want to kiss him._

The desire to lean forward and claim Oswald’s lips with his own is so sudden, so ferocious and demanding that it is all he can do to hold himself in place. Ed looks at Oswald and _wants_ with a desperation so hungry it scares him.

“Sorry, riddles are your thing I know,” Oswald says after a few beats of silence, pouting a little as he turns away. “I won’t try and attempt another.”

Ed blinks, once, twice. He swallows and realises his lips had been parted, jaw hanging open. With an abrupt clack of teeth, he closes it.

Well, that is… inconvenient.

“Come on, Ed. No rest for the wicked.”

Ed watches Oswald shuffle out of the car, utterly oblivious to the current crisis he has caused, the devastation he has wrecked with a pathetic cluster of consonants and Ed is left alone with the buzzing panic of his thoughts.

Distantly, he wonders if he is in shock.

The puzzle of the last five years sits complete in his mind at long last, all the pieces slotting beautifully together and he feels more foolish than he has in his life.

_It’s him. It’s always been him, hasn’t it? You want him. You need him. You-_

Ed half-stumbles out of the car. Looking back, the dull ringing in his ears would be the reason he doesn’t spot the civilian car that has been trailing them for five blocks pulling into the alley behind them, the reason he doesn’t notice the sound of heavy boots and the click of metal until it is too late.

However, in the moment, all he knows is a white-hot panic scolding his lungs with each inhale.

Despite his very best efforts, Ed wants Oswald Cobblepot. Utterly and completely. After all this time. After everything.

It is Gotham’s twisted sense of humour, then, that Ed doesn’t see Oswald for another ten years.

??? ???

A decade is a long time to think.

Arkham certainly creates the space for it. This time there are no monsters in the basement, no crazed clowns or mad scientists, just inkblots and shrink sessions and a rotating cocktail of drugs and diagnoses…

Of course, Ed tries to escape. Multiple times. Naturally, something always goes wrong, the unforeseeable stumbling blocks so unavoidable it is almost comical. It doesn’t stop him trying though.

While the escape plans serve as adequate distractions for a time, over the years the period between each attempt only gets longer and the things he wishes he could forget about become harder and harder to ignore.

_I can fill a room or just one heart. Others can have me, but I can’t be shared. What am I?_

For example, Arkham makes him realise just how lonely he has been for almost three years. 

In his first week of his time in the Asylum, Ed manages to steal a cutting from the newspaper from the day of their trial. It is a black and white picture of Oswald glaring out from a courtroom stall, dignified and deadly. He keeps it by his bed, uses it to ground himself when the medication and malaise of an insane asylum gets too much.

About seven months in, he discovers the picture is missing. He nearly kills a man with a plastic fork, Riddler turned half-feral at the possibility of losing the only physical connection he has to Oswald and the very real chance that without it, in this numbing, mindless hell, he could forget what Oswald even looks like.

_You are the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose you. Please._

After two days of heavy sedation, an orderly slips him an old picture of Oswald, taken during his time as Mayor, shaking hands at one of the many endless press conferences. He never finds out which orderly it was, but he feels stunningly grateful all the same.

Ed spends many sleepless nights tracing that old smile, eyes pulled again and again to his right eye, as yet unblemished.

He tries to remember. Was that smile for show or genuine? And was the picture taken before or after Ed had left? And Oswald- at this point, did he think- did he believe he had-

_If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of being a sentimentalist._

The dead, empty space of Arkham leaves little else to do but reminisce. It makes Ed sickeningly nostalgic. These days, the occasional coded letter from Blackgate Prison is the only thing he ever receives from Oswald and, while he is unbelievably thankful for the distraction they pose, he yearns for those old visitation sessions, the gifts of sweaters and puzzles and biscuits.

_Why are you being so kind?_

Ten years of emaciated time eat away at Ed, strip back all the posturing and excuses and there is little else he can do but _think_.

Unsurprisingly, one topic dominates all others.

Ed knows that he wants Oswald. If he’s honest, he has always known it. The first day he spied him across the GCPD floor, spiked hair and dark suit, he had thought _mine, that one, that one’s mine_. That sense of kinship, of belonging, of ownership has never really gone away.

Since the start, he has wanted Oswald’s guidance, his friendship, his trust, his loyalty, his equal devotion. Even when he had thought himself utterly unworthy of it. 

_You know that you’re standing too close._

Ed also knows he has wanted Oswald in... other ways. His gaze has always been drawn to the curve of Oswald’s lips, the long line of his neck, the sea storm of his eyes.

He can even accept that, on some deep level, he _needs_ Oswald. The best friend he ever had. That Oswald made him and so, without him, something will always feel incomplete. So, yes, fine, he wants him, he needs him.

But more?

 _For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness_.

He cannot love Oswald. He simply cannot.

Everything else, wanting, needing, craving he can accept, but not- he can’t-

Oswald betrayed him. That’s what started this all. Oswald _hurt_ him, more deeply than anyone else has ever done. He _can’t_ love him.

_You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other._

One day, Ed arrives at his routine therapy session to find a new shrink waiting for him. She is a pretty, blonde slip of a woman, red lipstick and thick rimmed glasses and Ed freezes at the door, shocked to realise in a horrifying instant-

He hasn't thought of Isabella in years. Oh, the rage and grief and pain of her death have at times occupied his thoughts obsessively, but Isabella herself?

Trapped in the drudgery of Arkham with its whitewashed walls and itchy overalls and awful food, he tries to remember Isabella, what she sounded like, what she said…

All he can think of is Kristen, red hair and green eyes.

His fingers itch.

For weeks, Ed tries desperately to stoke the embers of that old anger but all he can find are age old questions and confusion.

_Why are you being so kind?_

_You gave up your revenge for me?_

_You paid Hugo Strange to save me?_

_Why?_

He wishes he could hate him.

Ever since Oswald had murdered Isabella, Ed had accepted the fundamental fact that Oswald was a cruel, manipulative man who had only masqueraded as his friend. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Oswald was incapable of love or sacrifice. So, he deserved to be destroyed.

_Ed said love is sacrifice. I should have been able to sacrifice my happiness for his. I couldn’t. But I’m ready now._

And yet, ever since that day on the pier, Oswald has contradicted that conclusion. He has saved his life, given up vengeance for him, sacrificed his eye to keep him alive-

One day, Ed awakes from a fitful sleep with the horrifying realisation that Oswald had even saved Lee Thompkins when he hadn’t needed to.

It doesn’t make sense. Oswald Cobblepot does not make sense and every day Ed grows more frustrated with Oswald, with himself, with their whole situation. His protestations that he doesn’t love Oswald get weaker and weaker with each passing year, a straw house collapsing into the sand as waves begin to flood in, salt and foam and he is slipping, going under, drowning-

_When Alexander encountered the Gordian knot, a knot so complex no one had ever been able to untangle it, he just removed his sword and cut it in two. Details can be distracting. Sometimes a simple solution is best._

Fine. _Fine_.

As ten years draw to a close, Ed finally, _finally_ relents and accepts the only solution he can.

He loves Oswald.

He is _in love_ with Oswald.

The fact that Oswald doesn’t love him back is inconsequential. Ed knows that any deeper feelings the man could have once held for him have been brutally eviscerated by a decade old bullet wound and countless betrayals.

After everything Ed has done, has said to him, Oswald’s friendship alone is a miracle. To want more, to _need_ more would be idiotic, insane, masochistic on an unconscionable level and he will not do that do himself, to them, he can’t-

_You always were a coward, Edward._

Only three days after making peace with it all, an Arkham guard turns the page of a newspaper and Ed sees Oswald’s face for the first time in so many years. In that heart stopping second, he can't help but gasp, clawing at the bars around him.

_Oswald._

After a rough rescue, finding Oswald's note splits Ed’s face into such a large grin he is worried that the skin will tear. It has been such a long time since he felt so _delighted_.

The next few hours are exhilarating, if unfortunate, yet it is worth it in the end. It brings him to where he needs to be.

_“Hello, old friend.”_

If there was any doubt, any unresolved anger or bitterness, it is gone the instant Ed turns and sees the face that has kept him sane for ten years, hears the voice that has followed him in his dreams.

 _“Oswald,”_ he breathes out, awestruck and it takes everything not to throw himself across the seats, wrap himself in those arms and sob.

It is like an addiction that sets in. The weight of Oswald’s eyes on him, the familiarity of speech and shared experiences, the silk of his praise against his skin.

_I have missed you._

Life begins anew for them. In earnest this time.

It is as if Gotham had merely been waiting, patiently biding its time for Ed to realise the truth he has been running from for what feels like a millenia. Now, the secret is out and it is all Ed can think about, every instant with Oswald precious and he cherishes each breakfast, each shared joke, each hardwon victory.

Ed doesn’t want to leave. But, after months of this shared existence, he realises he has no other choice.

Every day, he wakes from dreams of firelit dinners and firefights, of green eyes and grenades and lies staring pleadingly at the ceiling, willing the visions away. The thought of his hands on Oswald’s face, in Oswald’s hair hurts more than is reasonable.

Ed doesn’t deserve Oswald’s friendship in the first place. He can’t do this. He can’t demand more from a man who has already sacrificed everything for him, he _can’t-_

So, for his own self-preservation, he leaves.

The Riddler makes his return to the Gotham stage and revels in the screams of terror, delights in the thrill of unmasking every snivelling sycophant as the idiots they are. However, as soon as he is safe back at his warehouse, his fingers are dialling Oswald’s number before he can stop himself.

_“Use my name, Oswald. Please.”_

To his shame, he is not above begging. Although, when it comes to Oswald, he never really was.

“ _You were utterly magnificent… Riddler.”_

It is like being born again. He can almost feel Oswald’s shaking hands clasped around his collar, whispering his name for the first time with salt in his eyes and honey on his tongue and it is all Ed can do to hang up the phone and sink to the floor under the weight of decade old memories as fresh and sharp as a blade.

_I need you, Riddler._

He doesn't see Oswald for a while after that. For his own good.

He throws himself into projects, work, takes on a henchwoman to help with organising heists. The only time he thinks of Oswald is when he replenishes the lilies at Gertrud’s grave.

Against all the odds, things are going well. Remarkably well. At least, for a while.

Finding himself in a GCPD cell eight months in is beyond humiliating, yet any embarrassment is instantly overtaken by the sight of Oswald striding through the doors, top hat and monocle firmly in place, brandishing a smile so vicious that he looks like he could rip open Jim Gordon’s throat with his teeth alone.

Oswald fights for him, for their friendship, despite everything.

So, Ed cannot go on ignoring him. It is that simple.

_What bird is always with you for dinner?_

Their evenings together are wonderful, even if they feel more like a gift for Ed than Oswald. They are the only time, apart from his occasional run-ins with Foxy, that he is able to simply talk, fully secure in the knowledge that Oswald is on his level, intellectually but also professionally. There is no pandering or long-winded explanations - they share a language and it is the easiest thing in the world to just _be_.

Every dinner feels like coming up for air after weeks of slow, excruciating drowning.

Ed limits them to once a month. He knows any greater frequency would lead to slip ups; he would get greedy, let the wine go to his head, say the wrong thing and it would all go up in flames.

Ed knows one thing with absolute clarity - losing Oswald again would destroy him.

He cannot afford to make mistakes.

_Oswald was right. He’s the only one._

Three years scuttle by surprisingly quickly. Three whole years since they won their freedom, since the Riddler and the Penguin re-emerged onto the Gotham stage, magnificent and glorious. It is an anniversary worth celebrating.

Ed has a new suit, a reservation at the latest Michelin star restaurant and a bottle of champagne waiting when he arrives at the Iceberg Lounge.

Of all the things that could have interrupted the evening, Lee Thompkins had not once crossed mind.

"So, Ed. How have you been?"

Ed settles down carefully into the plush purple velvet of the booth, one of the few private areas of the club. Across the table, Lee Thompkins sits resplendent and shining, even sheltered from the roaming lights as she is now.

She looks at him expectantly and Ed realises with a shock of adrenaline that he has no idea what to expect from this conversation.

"Fine." Ed pauses, licking his lips and trying desperately not to fidget. “Yourself?”

“Very well, thank you,” Lee replies, smiling.

Ed clears his throat. "Wouldn't your, uh, husband be a little perturbed to know we were talking?"

Lee gives a short scoff of laughter, as if the question was ridiculous.

"I love Jim, but he certainly does not control my life, nor the people I chose to talk to.” The corner of her mouth curls upward. “Besides, it's not like we're about to start weekly coffee trips, is it?"

Ah, Ed had forgotten this, the feeling of being scolded by the arch of an eyebrow alone. He hasn’t missed it.

"I didn't mean to suggest he did,” Ed remarks cooly, crossing his legs and leaning back into a more relaxed posture. “I'm merely… aware of the history."

“I appreciate the thought, Ed,” she says, syllables softened by laughter. “You know, I remember Jim mentioned you escaped police custody a few years ago. I haven't seen him look that tired in years."

_You shouldn’t have had to do anything, Oswald. It was my mistake. Why are you always so kind-_

Ed grits his teeth, impatience biting as his heels as he mentally counts down the time until his and Oswald’s reservation.

"Look, Lee, I know you didn’t ask me here just to share small talk. What is-"

"He got you out," she says, inclining her head back towards the bar, "didn't he?"

Ed can't help it. His mouth goes dry as his gaze is drawn against his volition, seeking out shapes in the darkness of the club. Distantly, he can just make out Barbara and Oswald sitting close at the bar, Barbara's arm outstretched, as if grasping his hand.

Ed swallows, answer tripping from his tongue before he can catch it.

"Yes."

He turns back to meet Lee’s eyes, her expression utterly impassive.

"Why?"

Ed blinks, thoughts skidding. "Why? Why what?"

Lee gives a short, almost soundless sigh and leans forwards, manicured fingers curling around the stem of her wine glass. "Why do you think he helped you escape?"

_I was hardly going to let you go back to Arkham when you’d only just escaped. And I wasn’t being kind, I was being a frie-_

Ed inhales slowly through his nose and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I… I don't know why Oswald does many things, but in this case, he was being a good friend."

Lee just looks at him, seemingly expectant. Humiliatingly, Ed feels his stomach squirm, hot embarrassment breathing down his neck.

"What more do you want me to say?"

Lee lifts her glass to her lips, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘still as blind as you were then’ before taking a substantial swig.

“We’ve never really talked since- well, you know when.” Lee places the glass delicately down against the table, the faintest smudge of lipstick on the rim. “But we need to. _I_ need to.”

Ed swallows again, struggling to resist the urge to get up and leave. “There’s nothing to talk about-”

“Yes, Ed, there is.” Lee looks at him, eyes brimming with something close to guilt. “What I did, even before the bridges blew… You walked into Cherry’s, vulnerable and alone and I saw that and I- I used you.”

Ed’s gut suddenly flares in pain, an old wound pulling taught against his skin and he feels his hands clench into fists in his lap.

“I wasn’t vulnerable, Lee. You didn’t _use_ me-”

“Yes, I did,” she says, eyes flickering down, fingers tight against the stem of her glass, “and I was wrong to do that. It was a dark period of my life, but that’s no excuse. For what it’s worth, Ed, I am sorry.”

Ed feels like the floor has been swept out from under him. Slowly he leans back, resting against the padded booth. He lets the silence stretch, mind wheeling through a hundred different responses, before he exhales slowly.

“You still stabbed me first.”

Lee looks up at him, stiff for a moment, before her lips curl into a small smile.

“Like you weren’t about to stab me.”

Ed raises an eyebrow and shrugs a little. “Well, we’ll never know what I would have done, will we?”

Suddenly, Ed is lost in an altogether different, distant memory of firelight, blades and an embrace deadlier than a bullet wound. _Life begins anew._

“Do you remember what I said?”

Ed is thrust forcibly back into the present, caught in the motion of adjusting his glasses.

_Sooner or later you were just going to kill me. It’s just what you do._

“I know you remember,” she says, expression watchful, “I can see it in your face.”

_I was never going to be who you wanted._

“You said a lot of things.” Ed allows his hands to fall back to the table, face grim set. “Why dredge it up now?”

“To be blunt, I could see back then what you wanted. _Who_ you wanted, and it certainly wasn’t me.” She pauses briefly, mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “Although I’m sure the eye-liner and dark hair helped.”

Ed goes cold, heartbeat suddenly unbearably loud in his ears. He feels like he has just plunged into a snowbank head first, half a dozen rifles pressed against his head and vicious dogs barking at his heels. _Caught_.

“Lee,” he bites out, fear suddenly a living, thrashing thing in his chest, “what are you implying?”

Her expression hardens, eyes like steel. “That you have had your head up your ass for over a decade and I am convinced that, unless someone challenges you on it, nothing is ever going to change.”

Ed’s jaw works helplessly, words dancing just out of reach as his face grows suddenly distressingly warm. “Wh- what are you-”

“Don’t play dumb, Ed. I have eyes, I can see how you look at him.” She raises an eyebrow. “How you’ve always looked at him.”

“I don’t… look at him like-” Ed swallows, heart pounding against his ribcage, that horrible sinking feeling of a siren screech crowding in around him. “Oswald is just-”

“Oh, _Oswald_ , is it? I didn’t mention a name.”

 _Fuck_. Ed glares at Lee, loathing her for making him feel like an idiot, for making him feel as weak as he knows he is.

_Don’t you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?_

“I- I _can’t_ , Lee,” he hisses out in a harsh breath, anxiously looking back towards the bar to ensure Oswald is still there and not lurking just over his shoulder, “I can’t risk this. I _can’t_.”

There is a long beat of silence, tension a palpable, quivering thing, before Lee reaches out across the table and grasps his hand, black nails ever-so-slightly digging into his skin. The contact runs through him like an electric shock.

“Look, Ed, it’s your life and, to be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m doing this, but-” she purses her lips, something like hesitation flickering across her face, “you deserve the chance to be happy. To have something real. And, as usual, you’re your own worst enemy. So, take this as my long overdue apology.”

Lee looks at him for a long moment and Ed is frozen, utterly paralysed as her dark eyes hold his own.

“Tell him, Ed. You will always regret it if you don’t.”

Lee releases his hand and drains her glass in one fluid motion. She stands, golden dress glittering with the movement and Ed can only stare, thoughts utterly decimated.

“He isn’t going to wait forever.”

And with that she walks away. Blinking furiously, Ed feels himself stand and follow as if walking through a haze, not fully in control of his own limbs.

At some point he finds himself standing by the bar, surrounded by a faceless crowd and Oswald at his side, looking up at him with mismatched eyes. Ed blinks and feels Lee’s words go through him like a blade.

_You deserve the chance to be happy. To have something real._

For the first time in his life, Ed looks at Oswald and wonders if that might be true.

With a vacant apology, Ed makes a swift departure, half-stumbling out of the Lounge. As much as he was looking forward to their dinner tonight, he is in no fit state to be with Oswald right now.

He stands outside of the club, breathing in the cold Gotham air, heart pounding wildly in his ears as he realises- he has no idea what to do next.

If there is one thing that Ed hates most of all, it is not knowing.

So, he needs a plan. Needs a next move.

Most of all, he needs advice.

Barely an hour later, Ed is in the back of a car, a loaded gun pressed into the back of an old friend’s skull.

“Hey, Foxy.”

The man before him lets out a long-suffering sigh, the sound rattling in the car.

“Nygma. You have got to stop doing this.”

Twisting, Lucius turns in the seat so he can fix Ed with one of his particularly withering glares. Ed keeps the gun level, just in case he gets any ideas about sending for help and smiles.

“What is it this time, hmm? A death trap maze? A life-size chess board? A city wide trophy hunt-”

“I’m afraid this isn’t my usual type of call.” Ed licks his lips. “I… need to consult with you on something.”

Mild surprise flickers over Lucius’ face before he reverts to his typical, implacable poker face. “You can’t keep breaking into my car every time-”

“This is a serious issue, Foxy.”

Lucius narrows his eyes, exhaling slowly. “Alright... What is it?”

Ed opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it. “I-”

_He had not thought this through._

After a stretch of approximately 9.7 seconds, Lucius raises both eyebrows. “Ed, I really need to get home for dinner...”

Ed frowns, readjusts his grip on the gun. “I’m trying, alright, this is just...hard.”

Lucius purses his lips but seems content to stay silent as Ed hunts for the right way to phrase this, to explain the immensity of what he is considering.

“I need to tell someone something… Confess something.”

“I suppose it’s wishful thinking to hope that this ‘someone’ is a cop.”

Ed shoots him a dark look and continues.

“It’s complicated but…” _It takes two men to pilot that submarine, Oswald. You have no friends. I don’t love you._ “I’ve been lying to someone for years and I have no idea how to tell them. How to even start.”

Lucius blinks, forehead crinkling with confusion. “Well, typically the best way is just to be honest. You say you’re sorry and promise not to do it again.”

Ed shakes his head, mania beginning to bubble in his chest. “No, no, this is too complicated, it’s been so long, I don’t know how to even _start-_ ”

“Oh,” Lucius lets out a little breath, eyes widening. Ed swallows, fumbling to push his glasses up his nose. _Always foxy_. “ _That_ kind of confession.”

Ed presses the gun a little more forcefully into Lucius’ temple and the man flinches back instinctively. “Shut up.”

“Hey, hey, alright,” Lucius holds up his hands, jaw working as he thinks, “well, if I was trying to make that kind of... _confession,_ I would make sure the other person was comfortable. Somewhere they felt relaxed.”

Ed nods, mentally flicking through possible locations. Somewhere familiar, somewhere private, somewhere safe. There are plenty of options, and yet...

“How,” Ed huffs, chewing on his lip, “how do I prove I’m serious about- about it?”

“Are you?”

Ed looks up and meets Lucius’ dark eyes. He blinks, feeling unbearably exposed, as if their positions were reversed and it was Lucius who was holding a gun to his head.

Is he serious about doing this? Is he actually willing to risk his friendship with the only person he truly cares about for the slimmest chance at happiness? Is he prepared to live with it if it costs him everything?

_Tell him, Ed. You will always regret it if you don’t. He isn’t going to wait forever._

Ed exhales, squares his jaw and plunges.

“Yes. I am.”

Lucius holds his gaze another few seconds before something in his eyes seems to soften. Ed chafes under the weight of it. “In that case… you know this person well, right? Well, what matters to them? What would be a sign you were being ‘serious’ about it?”

The answer comes to him immediately.

_When I was young, my mother would sing that song to me when I was going to bed..._

Family. It has always been Oswald and family. That was the key to their relationship at the start of it all, so it makes sense it would be again. The perfect circle, beginning and end. If he could just find something of value, recover something meaningful that would right the wrong of disturbing Elijah’s remains…

Ed feels his face split into a wide grin, mind fizzing with the beginning of a plan.

“I know what to do.” Ed removes the gun with a flourish, relishing Lucius’ tiny sigh of relief. That slight flicker of fear, of respect is why Ed likes him so much. Lucius never knew the jittery, nervous forensic technician. When Lucius looks at him, Ed knows he only ever sees the Riddler. “As always, your advice has been very adequate.”

Lucius looks at him with a strange mix of exasperation and some other emotion, something misty, tucked away. “I’m glad one of us gets something from these late night chats. If you could _not_ knock me out this time, that would be wonderful.”

Ed considers for a moment, before shrugging, feeling unaccountably generous. Lucius has been genuinely useful, after all. “Alright. See you next time, Foxy.”

As he opens the car door, cool evening air stinging his face, he hears the rustle of fabric as Lucius turns back to face the windshield.

“Good luck, Ed,” he murmurs.

_No luck needed for this one, Foxy. I’ve got the perfect plan._

??? ???

Three months later, Ed is standing alone in the rain, utterly drenched and, for the first time in his life, at a complete loss at what to do next.

Perhaps _not_ the perfect plan then.

He hovers outside Oswald’s apartment building for an embarrassing amount of time. In stops and starts he begins to walk away before halting, turning, halfway to the elevator before he loses his nerve.

_The only reason you would ever say those words is if you wanted to manipulate me. Use me._

_You expect me to believe you were trying to- to woo me?_

_Loving you killed me, Ed. It_ destroyed _me._

Finally, Ed leaves, an emotion writhing in his chest that he has never felt in his life. It is like his chest has cracked, shards splintering through his lungs like a broken lab beaker, internal bleeding coating his ribcage with scarlet, filling up his lungs, it is so hard to _breathe_.

_You always were a coward, Edward. It’s no wonder Oswald doesn’t want you. Too late, too stupid, why would he ever love someone like you, after what you’ve done to him-_

“Shut up,” he hisses underneath his breath, shoulders bunching up against the rain as ghosts whisper in the dark.

_-he’s not even going to be your friend after this, you do realise that don’t you, little Edward Nygma, alone in the world-_

“Please-”

_-probably for the best, you’d have killed him eventually, you always do, squeeze the life out of everything that gets close, look what you did to him and you didn’t even touch him, everything you love burns-_

“Edward Nygma!”

The voices scatter, rats scuttling away from a burst of torchlight, and he turns. Blinking past mist and rainwater, he sees a figure running towards him, a dark shape sprinting through the downpour.

They are carrying an umbrella.

The figure draws ever closer and Ed does something incredibly, inexcusably stupid-

He _hopes_.

??? ???

Sunlight. Warmth. Breathing.

Slowly, Ed blinks open his eyes and, for a few disturbing seconds, has no idea where he is.

It is a sensation he has experienced far too often.

Reacting with muscle memory, Ed reaches blindly to his left, grasping for purchase and- there. Glasses in place, a room full of gentle light materialises around him. The delicate sunlight breathes life into a world of sleek, modern monochrome, creams and whites and blacks, just a dash of indigo and he seems to be in some sort of bed, one that is much larger and softer than he has slept in for years.

In a rush of confusion, Ed struggles up into a sitting position when his leg makes contact with something else, something warm, living, breathing-

“Mmmph.”

Ed looks down and, in a wild rush of disbelief, finds Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin, curled up against Ed’s right side, sound asleep, looking more peaceful than Ed has ever seen him.

_Edward Nygma, I have loved you for almost two decades... It’s only ever been you._

As memories of the past night begin to slot into place like files in a cabinet, Ed breathes through the tightness in his chest, an overwhelming wash of emotions leaving him drained. He remembers the riddle, the ring, the way things had suddenly fallen apart like a car careening towards a freight train, utterly helpless to avert the oncoming devastation-

Oswald snuffles a little and Ed’s attention is sharply brought back to the present. This is no time to be wallowing - yes, mistakes were made, but look where they got him.

Carefully propping himself up on one elbow, Ed stares down, awestruck at the man he has been desperately in love with for years, sleeping at his side, utterly vulnerable and yet, gently puffing warm breath against Ed’s skin.

_Trust is so very hard to find in Gotham. But I trust you, Ed._

Distantly, Ed realises he is smiling.

_You’re saying that you love me? Still?_

_I never stopped._

Without thinking, Ed carefully brushes a few errant hairs from Oswald’s forehead, treasuring the feather-like feel of them beneath his fingertips.

_Even-_

_Even then. Always._

Oswald looks uncharacteristically soft in this morning light. All the harsh edges of two decades of battles and injuries fade away, lines smoothed out. Beautiful. Ed swallows against a sudden surge of emotion in his throat. He is so beautiful.

_I’m so sorry I made you wait._

His fingers stutter as they trace the scarred skin around Oswald’s ruined eye. Still caught in sleep, he can almost pretend that Oswald went uninjured in that final battle, that he was not forced to sacrifice something else to protect Ed. _Your fault, too slow, too stupid, your fault, your-_

Ed sets his jaw against the age-old accusation and grounds himself on the feeling of Oswald breathing against him, the warmth, the weight of him.

_Edward Nygma, I have loved you for almost two decades and it hasn’t killed me, not really. In fact, I am stronger than ever for loving you._

Cautiously, Ed leans down and presses a kiss at the corner of Oswald’s right eye, cherishing the chance to finally fulfil a decade old desire.

_Always you, no one else, not really, you, Oswald, just you, anything for you..._

Oswald snuffles at the contact, eyes screwing shut tight before blinking open. Mismatched eyes peer up at him, blue and green, storm and sea.

Ed cannot stop himself from smiling.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

One of the first things Ed ever learnt about Oswald is that he is _not_ a morning person, brain sluggish and slow first thing before a cup of coffee and bite to eat. Today seems no exception, even in such extraordinary circumstances.

Ed makes the most of Oswald’s slow awakening, cherishing the stretching seconds where he can openly watch, catalogue, commit every second to memory, each muscle movement and quivering breath precious.

Oswald blinks up at him, eyes wide. "You stayed."

Ed’s smile only grows. "Of course I did."

Moving slowly, gently enough that Oswald could stop him if he wanted, Ed leans down and presses an easy, lazy kiss to Oswald’s lips. After the heart-stopping, consuming, near-burning intensity of last night, this kiss is quiet, more a caress, a whisper.

It leaves Ed dizzy all the same.

"How did you sleep?"

Oswald’s eyes flutter open, expression painted in the closest thing to bliss Ed has ever seen on the man. _I had no idea there was still so much to learn about you, Oswald_

"Well. _Very_ well." Oswald’s smile sharpens, smug and sated. "It would seem someone rather tired me out."

Ed’s grin widens to match Oswald’s, enjoying the sight of Oswald stretching out in a suspiciously cat-like motion, curling against Ed’s side a little more comfortably. Ed slinks down lower, one hand tracing patterns on Oswald’s back.

“My sentiments exactly,” Ed murmurs into Oswald’s hair. "If I may ask, what would the Penguin have planned to do today?"

Oswald frowns, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as if reviewing an internal calendar. "Well, I was supposed to have a meeting with Zsasz at four, meet with a few clients at six. Nothing that can't be rearranged."

"A one word answer would have sufficed," he purrs, lips grazing the shell of Oswald’s ear.

The look Oswald gives him is utterly _thrilling_.

"Edward Nygma, you are most definitely worth the wait."

And then they are kissing again, slowly, luxuriously, exploring without the urgency of eighteen years weighing on them. Ed has spent so long imagining the feel of Oswald’s lips beneath his it is slightly surreal to actually be kissing him, but he is learning quickly.

Oswald snakes a hand into Ed’s hair and, _oh_ , there, just the slightest scrape of nails against his scalp, just enough sensory stimulation to draw out shivers, eyes rolling back in their sockets, a quiet groan slipping through his lips before he can stop it.

Ed wants to know everything, catalogue each ridge, each line, each curve, wants to chart every inch of this man like a constellation. Warmth drips through his veins, as thick as honey as he hooks a leg around Oswald’s, pulling him closer, kissing him _deeper-_

Oswald pulls back with a hiss of pain. “Ow, _ow-_ ”

“Oswald, what-” As quickly as possible, Ed has backed off, disconcertingly panicked by the twist of pain on Oswald’s face. "Sorry, did I-"

"No, not you.” Oswald grimaces at him, voice almost apologetic as he struggles to sit up. “It’s just- my leg isn't used to sharing a bed with someone else."

 _Oh, right._ Ed blinks, feeling strangely stupid. “The late night sprint probably didn’t help things.”

Oswald chuckles, even as he winces, gritting his teeth. “If the price for you is a slightly complaining leg, it is happily paid.”

_There shouldn’t be any price, Oswald. Not after everything._

“Well, I can at least help.” Ed leans in to press a quick kiss to Oswald’s cheek. “I’ll run you a bath and make some breakfast. It’s been ages since I cooked for you.”

“That would- that would be lovely. Although,” Oswald casts a glance to his bedside table and abruptly laughs, "lunch might be more accurate than breakfast."

Interesting. Ed pauses for a moment, wondering when he last slept for more than five hours. “I suppose it was an... emotionally exhausting night.” He looks down at his hands, twisting together in his lap. “I’m sorry for that.”

"Ed,” Oswald says softly, titling Ed’s jaw to look at him, “I said last night we would discuss things today, and we will. But the most important thing you need to know is that I am _overjoyed_ that we are here now. I don’t begrudge a moment of how we got here.”

Ed blinks hard, swallowing down a wave of emotion. Before he can even begin to form a response Oswald is kissing him, a short, sweet meeting of lips, so crushingly delicate it makes Ed want to sob. All too quickly, he pulls back and Ed is utterly lost.

“Alright, well, if I'm having a bath, you are sharing it. You got just as cold as I did last night and I am _not_ having you catch a cold."

Ed hisses out a breathless chuckle, eyes strangely watery.

 _Oh, Oswald, you are perfect_.

“Bath first, then lunch.” The corner of Ed’s mouth curves upwards. “I’ll start the water.”

The bath is glorious, even if the shared soreness illuminates quite how much age is catching up to them. After a very luxurious and rather _long_ session, Ed gets out first to follow Oswald’s directions for a spare dressing gown. Delighted, he discovers it is a familiar gold and black.

_A reminder of past struggles and new beginnings._

While Oswald is doing his hair, Ed clears away the abandoned Chinese take-out from last night, discreetly cleaning the smashed wine bottle he finds against the wall. He then proceeds to make a delicious, if simple goulash out of the few available ingredients in the kitchen (he really must convince Oswald to invest in culinary equipment), and they eat on the sofa, the room silhouetted by the strangely bright Gotham skyline.

The storm has passed.

“So…”

Oswald looks up at Ed, eyebrow raised. “So?”

Ed huffs, folding up his napkin. “We should talk. About how we approach… this. Us.”

Oswald gives a slight grin. “I believe it was you who said that half of Gotham already thinks we’re together.”

Stupidly, Ed feels his cheeks begin to warm. “Yes, yes, I did. We’d be foolish to think no one spotted us last night and, if it got around, for many it would just be a confirmation, not a shocking revelation. I just...”

Oswald's smile falls and he leans forward, eyes concerned. “What’s worrying you?”

_A man with nothing that he loves is a man who cannot be bargained, a man that cannot be betrayed, a man who answers to no one but himself._

Ed swallows. “I don’t want you to feel...trapped by me. You have much more at stake in gang disputes and your public persona while what people think of the Riddler is slightly irrelevant. If someone were to use me to get to you-”

“Ed,” Oswald interrupts, holding up a hand, “if Black Mask or the Bertinelli’s or, hell, _the Bat_ had tried to threaten you a year ago to get to me, do you think I would have responded any differently than I would now?”

Ed licks his lips, something sinking in his stomach. “But-”

“Like I said last night, I have always loved you. Whether you loved me back was, frankly, inconsequential. You were just as great of a ‘weakness’ before - in that way, nothing has changed.”

Ed sits forward on his seat, swallowing the sudden bile in his mouth. “Exactly, Oswald, but if people now know when before they didn’t-”

“It’s a risk I am more than willing to take, Ed.” Oswald meets his gaze, all steel and iron, utterly immovable. “I’m more than used to my heart being used against me and winning despite it. No, winning _because_ of it.”

Ed opens his mouth to argue but no words come. He knows when Oswald is like this there will be no argument. His teeth click shut, audible in the now quiet room.

“You’re absolutely sure you don’t want to keep this secret?”

Oswald hums, looking out across the Gotham skyline as he considers. “Well, I’m not saying we start putting up billboards, but I believe there are some old friends who should know. Not right away, just as we feel comfortable, of course, but rumours are going to spread eventually.”

“I suppose…” Ed forces himself to relax back into the sofa, accepting the logic of Oswald’s argument despite the worry that still eats at him. “It’s a shame. I was quite enjoying our little antagonistic charade we had going.”

Oswald’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, I think we could certainly keep people guessing. A few public arguments, maybe a little orchestrated cold war between the Penguin and the Riddler…”

 _Now that sounds interesting._ Ed can already see the possibilities stretching out before him, practically glittering. He grins.

“I think something like that can definitely be arranged.”

He startles as Oswald takes his hand, thumb gently smoothing over his knuckles. The movement draws Ed’s gaze down, catching on the sight of that beautiful ring, glinting in the sunlight.

“I just want you to know, Ed, you are _not a weakness._ ” Ed’s eyes drag back up and he is caught in the piercing gaze of mismatched eyes. “Believe me when I say, if anyone ever attempts to harm you I will personally see to their destruction.”

“I would do the same,” he returns without thinking, heart suddenly beating quicker, “I would do _anything_ -”

“Exactly,” Oswald says, smiling. The grip on his hand tightens before he is released. “So, that’s settled then. We are stronger together.”

Ed blinks, before nodding, warmth flooding his chest.

_Life begins anew._

“May I ask something, Ed?”

He hums an affirmative, taking a sip of water.

"What were you going to ask last night? Originally, I mean, when you gave me the ring.”

Ed stiffens, the memory of last night, sitting in the exact same place suddenly overwhelming. _Even for you, Ed, this cruel._

At his silence, Oswald pales a little. “You weren’t actually going to propose-”

“Oh no, goodness, no.” Ed rushes to say and watches Oswald visibly slump with relief.

“Good, or I probably would have stabbed you.”

_So, a future proposal requires a little more preparation. Noted._

Ed winces a little. “It was, ah, still something you wouldn’t have liked.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow, confused for a moment before realisation hits. “Oh, Ed,” he whispers, face dripping with horror, “ _please_ say you weren’t going to ask me a riddle.”

Ed says nothing, taking another sip from his glass.

“I take it back,” Oswald murmurs, looking at Ed with disbelieving eyes, “I would have _definitely_ stabbed you.”

“You can be so melodramatic sometimes,” Ed says, with a roll of his eyes.

“Pot meet kettle, _Riddler-_ ”

“A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave. What am I?” Ed breathes, inexplicably, _stupidly_ nervous all of a sudden, just as he had been last night before it all had all gone so horrendously wrong. “That was the riddle I was going to ask you.”

Oswald tilts his head, looking at Ed with a sudden softness. After a few seconds of silence he shakes his head. “You’ve stumped me.”

“Home,” Ed murmurs, mouth suddenly unbearably dry, “I was going to tell you, before-”

“Tell me what, Ed?”

Ed licks his lips, heart jack-rabbiting against his ribcage. “You, Oswald. You’re home. Always have been.” He takes in a shuddering breath, eyes locked with this beautiful, incredible, astonishing man before him. “I always know what I am, _who_ I am with you. You’re my- my home.”

Oswald looks stricken, jaw slack as he just... stares, open mouthed. Ed coughs.

“I, uh, appreciate it sounds a little contrived but I hoped it would get the message across that I- that I felt... I didn't get the chance to say it, last night, but you know now. That’s what’s important.”

Oswald inhales a shaky breath and Ed feels a spike of concern. He can’t have done something wrong again, surely?

“Oswald, are you-”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice wavering. He swallows and the movement looks painful. “Ed, there’s something I need to say, that I haven’t been able to in a long, long time.”

Ed nods, trying desperately to squash the writhing nerves in his stomach.

“Of course, anything.”

Oswald takes another steadying breath, drawing himself taller in his seat. “Back when I was Mayor and you were my Chief of Staff, I fell in love with you.”

Immediately, dread pools in his stomach, thick like treacle, and he begins to shake his head, opening his mouth in protest, this is too soon, they don’t need to do this now-

“Oswald-”

“In hindsight, it was selfish and immature, yes,” Oswald blinks, eyes beginning to mist with water, “but it was love. And I was going to tell you.”

A lance of panic flares through him, lightning quick. "Oswald, you don't need to-"

"No, Ed, we never talk about this,” Oswald says, tone almost pleading, desperate, “and we need to. Please. _I_ need to.”

Ed’s teeth click shut and he wrestles down the overriding impulse to get up and bolt.

_I hope you know, Oswald, I would do anything for you._

Oswald takes a fortifying breath and continues. “I… I realised after Butch almost killed you. I knew immediately I had to tell you but I couldn’t- I wasn’t brave enough.”

Forcing down his panic, Ed frowns, thinking back over that time, trying to remember what had happened just after the Red Hood debacle. Sundry state business, a school tour, or a library visit perhaps? And then something about-

“Dinner. I’d got Olga to prepare it all, I had a speech ready but-”

“Isabella,” he whispers, thunderstruck. Ed feels like time has stopped, the world gone silent as something old and dark and cold shivers across his skin. “I met Isabella. So that’s why you were so worried…”

Distantly he notes that Oswald has ducked his head, fingers fluttering in his lap, twisting together. “It was like I was being punished for not telling you sooner.”

_I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her._

Ed squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fingers beneath his glasses in an attempt to force back the sheer immensity of it all.

“ _Why_ are you saying this now, Oswald?” He hates how petulant he sounds, but it’s like some old inflamed muscle has been pulled and the sharp pain of it is overwhelming. “We’re happy. We’re finally here and you’re bringing up _this-_ ”

“Because if we don’t we never will.” Ed flashes open his eyes to see Oswald staring back, mismatched eyes unwavering. “Any legitimate concerns I may have had about Isabella aside, what I did to her, to _you_ , was wrong. It was not loving, it was- cruel. Cowardly.”

_I wanted you to die, knowing you were incapable of loving another person. The truth is you would sacrifice anyone, even me._

“I’ve never actually said this to you before, Ed, but you deserve to hear it. I-” Oswald takes a slow breath and it feels like the moment before an explosion. “I am so _sorry_ for hurting you. For killing her and for everything since. I never want to hurt you again.”

Ed feels stunned. Utterly stunned.

He is frozen, in ice, in fear, in disbelief. He had never expected Oswald to even address that awful time, let alone say- he hadn’t thought he would ever-

_Love is about sacrifice. It’s about putting someone else’s needs and happiness before your own. I couldn’t. But I’m ready now._

“I- I-”

“Shh,” Oswald whispers, as he leans forward, cupping his face with gentle hands, “don’t say anything, it’s okay. I’m not expecting forgiveness. I just- I just need you to know.”

Ed releases a broken, cracked exhale and it is all he can do to rest his forehead against Oswald’s, white noise crackling in his ears.

_Enough now. Enough._

“The poor have it, the rich need it and if you eat it you’ll die.” Ed pulls back a little, just so he can meet Oswald’s eyes. Carefully he reaches up a shaking hand to trace Oswald’s cheekbone.

“Ed, what-”

“Nothing.” Ed takes a steadying breath of his own, a futile attempt to quiet his erratic heart. “I forgave you of all that a long time ago, Oswald. There is simply nothing left to forgive. ”

Oswald inhales sharply, eyes wide and disbelieving. The moment stretches, a strange buzzing beneath his skin before-

“Oh, _Ed-”_

Oswald _collides_ with Ed so suddenly it is almost painful, lips against his moving fast, desperate, hands tugging at his hair and Ed pushes back, presses the weight of words and riddles that he cannot fathom into his mouth in the hope he might understand them.

Ed draws back breathless, trembling and speaks before he can stop himself.

"I took drugs."

Oswald’s eyelids flutter open, left pupil blown wide, body swaying forward as if it is taking all of his self-control not to descend back.

"...Alright,” he says slowly, already edging forwards again, "I never you took you for that kind of person, but-"

“No, no-” Ed shakes his head, now he has begun the words tumbling out against his own will, “after you died. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t think. I just wanted to see you again, so I- I took drugs to hallucinate you.”

That finally gets Oswald’s attention, eyes flicking back up to meet his in shock.

Ed slowly traces Oswald’s cheek, thumb skirting the scarred skin just below his eye. “I was a mess, Oswald. Killing you almost destroyed me. I just thought it was the only way I could be free.”

“I- uh,” Oswald licks his licks, breath warm against Ed’s mouth, “not exactly the confession I was expecting, but… thank you for telling me. It means more than you know, Ed.”

“I have been such an idiot,” Ed murmurs, dipping down to kiss Oswald’s neck, delighting in the way fingers immediately spasm against his shoulders, “I didn’t want to accept it but you were right.”

Ed kisses lower, deeper, lightly nipping at the sensitive skin with his teeth and Oswald gasps, jolting with each movement. “Ed, _oh_ , please-”

“You cannot have one without the other.” In one swift movement he is back at Oswald’s lips, greedily swallowing each moan. The same heat from last night has returned, coiling in his gut, hot and hungry and dark and all he can think is _Oswald would have told me, it was real, Oswald loved me, Oswald still loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me-_

“Bed,” Oswald gasps, lips already ruined, “ _now.”_

Ed pulls back, grin half-feral.

“You have the best ideas.”

??? ???

The next week becomes an impromptu holiday for them both. Oswald cancels his meetings, Ed delays his projects and they just stay in the apartment. They eat and drink and spend a frankly inexcusable amount of time in bed.

It is the happiest Ed can remember feeling in his life.

Ed delights in the fact that Oswald can still surprise him, even after all this time. He adores learning things he never thought he'd know, actively catalogues and categories what Oswald likes, what he can do with his teeth to get him to hiss and writhe, what he can do with his tongue that makes him _moan_.

There is so much hunger in Oswald's movements Ed can barely catch his breath. Oswald kisses him like a man starved, and his skin _burns_ beneath his fingertips. Bruises litter his skin, blooming purple and green, teeth marks catch just above the collar of his suit. His whole-body aches with the knowledge that Oswald Cobblepot has claimed him, totally and utterly.

Oswald demands everything, desperate and frantic and it is all Ed can do to keep breathing and keep up.

He knows Oswald loves him. Has loved him, seemingly had never stopped loving him but he hadn't thought-

Ed had never thought he'd _wanted_ him this much.

Some days he can feel nothing but joy that they have found each other, at long last, in the same place, in a healthy place. That it is better late than never. That the years it took them to get here were not wasted because it means they can have _this_.

Some days he can feel only regret, furious anger at himself and his stupidity, his blinkered vision for eighteen years when it had come to the Penguin. They could have had this years ago. It was his fault, all his fault that they didn’t-

But each time those thoughts arise, Oswald soothes the anger with each kiss, chases away the regret and Ed feels absolution wash over him.

Oswald wears his ring every day.

Returning to Gotham is like stepping out of a dream. When Ed wakes up for the first time in his safe house, he genuinely wonders whether he dreamt it all.

Barely fifteen minutes later on that first morning, his phone lights up. He answers it before the first ring can even finish.

“Hi, Ed.”

Ed releases a breath of relief, sharp and hot.

“Hello, Oswald.”

_So, you too. This is real. Life begins anew._

In many ways, nothing really changes.

Some things are different. They text more. They call every now and then (Oswald had been very insistent about that). They arrange dinners and coffee and drinks when they can, when their schedules align and they won’t be too conspicuous. Occasionally, they argue, but they always have.

It feels so natural. Easy. As simple as it had been to slide a knife into Officer Doughtery’s stomach or the silky glide of material against skin when he had put on his first tailored, forest green suit.

Nothing changes, and yet, somehow, everything does.

Martin is the first to know. Oswald sends him a letter explaining the development in their relationship and, within a week, advanced post has returned a letter, addressed to ‘Uncle Edward’.

Anxiously, Ed reads. The letter is a mix of joy ( _I’ve waited over a decade for this),_ bemusement ( _did you really think I didn’t know this was inevitable_ ) and warning ( _hurt my father like you did before and I will destroy you_ ).

Ed feels the strangest mix of pride and genuine fear.

Loving Oswald would have been enough, but to receive a family because of him as well? It is a gift he knows he will never quite repay. Still, he decides to look into plane ticket prices to England. One has to start somewhere. 

Barbara texts him a message with far too many exclamation points and promptly takes Oswald out for celebratory drinks, promising a similar night out for Ed if he wants.

Lee sends him two messages in quick succession: _‘3 months? Really, Ed?’_ and _‘I’m so pleased for you. You deserve it.’_

Zsasz sends them a gift basket.

In all honesty, it is… surprisingly nice.

What’s more, he and Oswald each seem to find a sudden fount of inspiration in their professional lives. The Riddler completes four heists in two days, while the Penguin manages to secure half of the docks district over the course of three remarkably bloodless weeks.

_Think of what we could do together. We would be unstoppable._

Five months into this strange, wonderful new life they finally get the chance to visit the Van Dahl Manor for a little weekend break. Ed has grown so used to the sleek, modern fittings of Oswald’s skyrise apartment it is something of a shock to return to the gothic architecture and antique fittings. It smells exactly the same, that fresh, clean air, pine wood and wet soil, the underlying must of old furniture.

Oswald wears a new suit and walks him into the dining hall, nervously watching his reaction at the sight before him. The entire length of the table is full of food of all kinds, silver crockery and china plates, candelabras and crystal glass.

Ed looks to Oswald, heart racing, eyes wide as he _understands_.

“I thought a do-over was in order,” Oswald says, smile bright but nervous.

Ed does the only thing he can do.

“At least you know what my answer will be,” he says against Oswald’s lips, drawing back slowly. Even after all these months, Oswald still chases him as he goes, seemingly on instinct.

Oswald looks up at him for a moment before grinning, eyes dancing. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we could use an old family vintage this time.”

Ed tips back his head and laughs.

Every day he waits for the penny to drop. For Oswald to change his mind, for the news the Penguin has been shot in some gang assassination, for someone, _anyone_ to use it against them. For his first lesson to Oswald to be proven right, that they are better off unencumbered.

Miraculously, that moment never comes.

Of course, there are difficult moments, arguments, disagreements, near-misses, run-ins with the Bat and the GCPD, but not once does Oswald express anything remotely close to doubt. His commitment is steadfast, unchanging, and it leaves Ed once again wondering what on earth he did to deserve this.

Before he knows it, a year has passed. Another anniversary. Nineteen years since he found Oswald in the forest and one since Oswald chased after him in the rain.

_The heart keeps its own time._

They agree to share the organisation for the evening. Oswald books an early dinner at a wonderful new Chinese restaurant, they share a bottle of wine and it is utterly delightful. However, as the meal draws to an end, Ed cannot help but feel vaguely distracted by his upcoming half of the evening. He simply cannot get it wrong again.

“So, Ed, what’s this show you’ve been so excited about taking me to?”

Leaning back against the limousine seat, Ed viscerally throttles any nerves and turns on his signature showman grin. “Some try to hide, some try to cheat, but time will always let us meet. What am I?”

Oswald pauses for a moment, before arching an eyebrow. “I do hope the surprise is not my death. That would be an unfortunate end to the evening.”

“No, you silly bird-” Ed leans across the seats to pass Oswald a small printed picture.

Oswald stares down at it in surprise. “But that’s-”

“Philip Turner. Your missing enforcer?” Ed settles back smugly. “He showed up at my door two weeks ago, trying to sell you out. He said, and I quote, ‘since the Riddler and the Penguin are such famous rivals, I thought I’d come to you first.’ We’ve been keeping him in a docks warehouse ever since, precisely for tonight.”

Oswald laughs, the sound rich with delight. “Oh, how perfect.”

"You haven’t even heard the best part…” Ed leans forward, grin more a show of teeth than anything else. “His middle name is _Leonard_."

Oswald’s eyes dance.

“As my mother said, it’s never dinner without entertainment.”

After the limousine has slowed to a stop, they each step out onto the docks, drenched in the light of the setting sun. The Gotham skyline and sea are remarkably clear, as they had been once before on a very different day.

Across the waves Gotham is painted in gold and it feels like fate.

“The docks again,” Oswald says through a laugh, hair rustling in the gentle breeze. “We keep coming back, don’t we?"

Oswald turns to look out across the shimmering waters and Ed uses the stolen, secret moment to simply look, admire, wonder at how unbelievably beautiful the man before him is, regal and resplendent, all the more for his scars and wounds. Oswald Cobblepot, the perfect riddle that Ed could never once grow bored of.

_The best friend I ever had._

“This should be the last time. I promise.” With a slight flourish, Ed offers out his arm. “Walk with me?”

With a smile as brilliant as the setting sun, Oswald links his arm through Ed’s, and they fall into step. For once, Gotham seems quiet. Content. The only noise is the gentle lapping of waves and occasional gul cry.

Oswald runs a gloved hand over his arm, pulling Ed closer. “Well, my dear, you certainly know how to make an anniversary memorable. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for months.”

Ed looks up at the brilliant skyline and subtly presses his hand against his left jacket pocket, grounding himself on the weight of a second, very different ring box which rests just under his heart, reciting once again the words engraved in its velvet lining and the most important question he will ever ask in his life.

_I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. Worthless to one, priceless to two..._

“Oh, Oswald,” he says, turning to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, “anything for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Happy Christmas!
> 
> I've been meaning to write an epilogue chapter for this fic since I finished it in summer. It felt complete but after such a wonderful reaction, I couldn't resist coming back just to see a little bit more of Ed and Oswald's future together, and to give Ed a chance to tell his side of the story as well. 
> 
> Hopefully this was a (generally!) fluffy, sweet epilogue that stays true to the characters and made you smile. In such an incredibly difficult time, may this be a small gift from me to you. Please drop me a comment to let me know what you thought and thank you for reading! <3


End file.
